That Horrible Moment
by Donraj
Summary: Remember those random characters you start the game with? (Complete)
1. Default Chapter

That Horrible Moment  
  
Chapter One  
  
Gilliam Saryas came to a stop amid the short grass and eyed the structure ahead glumly. The cadet barracks was a one-story building, built of gray stone that perfectly matched the overcast clouds that enshrouded October sky. Nothing like the housing he was used to, but what had he expected? As the fourth child of a minor nobleman, he had known better than to hope for a life of luxury.  
  
His eyes were a sapphire blue, and his body rose to just under six feet. His frame was moderate, and still gawky from adolescence. His hair, the feature that helped distinguish him from the other cadets, mostly younger children of minor families themselves, was dark brown.  
  
He looked upwards at the slate-colored heavens above, then dropped his head with a sigh. It would be raining soon, and he was out of excuses. With a brief mental prayer to Saint Ajora for guidance, he walked to the barracks' door.  
  
As he stood in the doorway, the cadets' eyes began to turn towards him. He tried to remember the proper greeting for this situation, but his mind drew a blank. Mentally, he cursed his old etiquette instructor. "A dozen proper ways to greet the King's son's mistress's sister," he thought, "but nothing on how to speak to the other trainees I'm going to be living beside for the next few years."  
  
He decided to improvise.  
  
"Greetings," he said evenly, hoping to sound as though he knew what he was doing, "I'm Gilliam."  
  
One of the cadets, wearing the badge of a student leader, stood and walked towards him. He held out his hand and smiled warmly. "Welcome to Gariland, Gilliam," he said. "I am Ramza Beouvle. Are you hungry?"  
  
"Yes, yes I am."  
  
"You arrived just in time for supper. I'm the cadet leader for this barracks, I'll show you around later," Ramza replied, his dictation slipping for a moment. "Come, have a seat."  
  
As they settled down at one of the mess hall's hard wooden tables, Gilliam looked over his fellow diners. Directly ahead of him was Ramza, the one who had greeted him earlier and leader of this unit. Gilliam knew perfectly well that it was the Beouvle name rather than any particular virtues on Ramza's part that had earned him his rank, but that was a reality Gilliam was well accustomed to. Ramza seem to be a decent enough fellow, and so Gilliam decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.  
  
Seated next to Ramza was a brown-haired youth that Ramza had introduced as Delita. Gilliam, as attuned to rank and class as any noble, immediately recognized him as a peasant. He looked slightly nervous; as if unsure he belonged here. Gilliam felt a flash of empathy.  
  
He knew the feeling.  
  
To Gilliam's left was a scrawny man wearing a stained tunic and vest, coupled with a sash that drooped with a number of odd substances. His head was covered by a brown leather cap, and there was a slightly disturbing gleam in his light blue eyes. His name was Alberto, and for some reason Gilliam found himself edging away from him nervously.  
  
At that point, he bumped into Rosa. He started to apologize, but she grinned and shook her head slightly, an understanding look in her green eyes.  
  
Apparently it was not just his imagination.  
  
As they began to hack away at the tough meat-like substance they had been given as a meal, Gilliam tried to strike up a conversation.  
  
"So, what exactly is this?"  
  
Ramza swallowed the piece he had been chewing, grimaced, and replied.  
  
"That is a widely debated question. Alberto here," Ramza nodded in the chemist's direction, "says that it has the exact consistency as a caulk they use to seal barrels. Rosa, on the other hand, swears she saw the cooks carrying a dead goblin towards the kitchen." Ramza shrugged. "Personally, I think it's both."  
  
Gilliam rolled his eyes. "It can't be that bad. That said, he lifted the piece he had just finished slicing off and popped it into his mouth. The look on his face went from smug, to startled, to curious, to amazed, then to sheer horror within the span of a few seconds. Forcing himself to finish the job, he gulped it down. Fighting to keep his face composed, (and not to choke) he gasped out a response. "It's alright, it just needs the right seasoning."  
  
Rosa leaned back and stretched. "Try saying that in a hour," she commented.  
  
A distinctly queasy look crossed Gilliam's face at that prospect, and the others, who had been suppressing their laughter until that point, exploded into sobs of mirth. Gilliam tried to maintain an indignant expression, but soon joined in.  
  
As the meal progressed, Gilliam became quiet. But though the snow began to pile outside and an icy wind howled, he felt warm for the first time since he was old enough to know what a "noble" was. *****  
  
Over the next year Gilliam and his fellow cadets dedicated themselves to the training that they hoped would one day make them knights of Ivalice. The results of the exhausting training began to show on Gilliam's body. His muscles toughened, with the softness of a noble's upbringing burned from his lean frame. His height remained the same, but the teenage awkwardness was replaced by calm, controlled pace. Then one day they were called to a surprise briefing.  
  
*****  
  
"Surrender or die in obscurity!"  
  
With those words, the battle began. Delita charged at the head of the group, shouting inarticulately. Gilliam started to follow, eager for his first real fight, but Ramza grabbed his shoulder, stopping him.  
  
"No." Ramza pointed "Go around through those side streets over there and cut them off; otherwise they'll outflank us."  
  
Nodding reluctantly, Gilliam circled around, his cadet issue short sword (not much more than a knife, really) clutched in his hand. Squinting to make out his path in the sudden shade, he scanned the area for an enemy. Sure enough, he saw a man several feet away. He was wearing a stained and threadbare tunic, and his face was covered with bruises. His nose was broken, and he moved with a pained limp. None of those things registered with Gilliam, as his gaze was instantly drawn to the dagger the man brandished.  
  
Gilliam struggled to think of a plan of action. Finally, he shouted. "Drop your weapon and I will spare your life, peasant!" His voice threatened to crack, but he tried to force himself to look imposing. The bandit snarled at him, a look of pure hatred in his eyes. He lunged forward, his dagger slashing for Gilliam's throat. All traces of infirmity vanished; he covered the distance in an instant. Gilliam, shocked by the suddenness of the attack, reacted with the instincts driven into his muscles by endless hours with the weapons instructors, drilling for just this situation. He turned, presenting the left side of his body to the attack. He thrust his arm out into the path of the knife. The blade slashed like fire across the outside of his forearm. Biting back a scream, he lashed out with his own dagger, landing a hit across his opponent's chest. But, the angle was poor; he only inflicted a shallow cut. The bandit, his teeth bared like an animal, slammed his head forwards, catching Gilliam off guard. Gilliam stumbled back, and the bandit wasted no time rushing ahead to finish the job.  
  
As he moved in, his foot hit a slick spot on the pavement. Unbalanced, he lurched forward. Reacting purely on instinct, Gilliam stabbed his dagger into his enemy's throat. Blood gushed out in a torrent, soaking Gilliam's uniform. The bandit's eyes widened with shock, and for one eternal moment their gazes locked in mutual horror. Suddenly, it was over. Like a puppet with its strings cut, the bandit collapsed to the hard stone of the street.  
  
Gilliam stared at the body, horrified by what he had done. The man's eyes, still open even in death, bore into him. Not even bothering to retrieve his dagger, Gilliam sank to the ground against a nearby wall. He had killed a man. He tried to remind himself that the man had been a criminal, that he had only moment ago been trying to kill him. None of that seemed to matter at that moment, as Gilliam's conscience screamed at him that he had killed another human being.  
  
The man had seemed no older than him.  
  
It was his duty that saved Gilliam at that moment, the knowledge that he was not alone, and that his comrades were very likely in combat not far away. He forced himself to stand up, and ran through the alley towards his allies.  
  
By the time he made it back, the fight was over. Ramza stood over another bandit's corpse, a bloodstained sword hanging limply by his side. He looked at the remains with an odd mixture of confusion, sadness, and anger.  
  
"Why?" Ramza asked of no one in particular. "You wouldn't have died if you had just lived an honest life."  
  
He lifted his head and saw Gilliam standing nearby. Ramza started to demand where he had been, and what had taken so long, but then he noticed the blood staining Gilliam's uniform. Closing his eyes, Ramza nodded. Straightening, Ramza turned and called out to the others. "Report your condition," he said calmly, all trace of sorrow or doubt vanished. As the cadets announced their survival one by one, Gilliam marveled at the sudden change in Ramza. Being able to shunt aside tears and doubts as long as his troops need him, is that what being a leader means? Gilliam wondered. He had no answer, but he knew at that moment that he would always in trust Ramza, no matter what the situation.  
  
He busied himself aiding Alberto with their wounded comrades, and replaced his bloody uniform with a fresh one. Soon they marched on to Igros.  
  
But the bandit's eyes would follow him for a long, long time.  
  
They marched quickly from Igros, knowing that every moment counted.  
  
Gilliam had been surprised when Ramza ordered them to prepare to leave for Dorter less than a day after they arrived in Igros. Ramza's manner had been odd ever since, he seemed worried; and about more than finding Marquis Elmdor. It did not take a great deal of imagination on Gilliam's part to realize that Ramza's orders on the subject were shaky at best. He refrained from trying to learn the details. In the fairly short period of time he had known him, Gilliam had come to trust Ramza implicitly. He did not want to explain what was going on, Gilliam was sure there was a good reason. Besides, the last thing Gilliam wanted was to be dragged into some sort of political mess among the major families.  
  
Suddenly, Ramza called them to a halt. Raising his hand to shade his eyes from the glare, he studied the scene ahead.  
  
A group of wagons lay ahead, many of them overturned. Amid the hulks a pitched battle was being fought. A group of humans, presumably the owners of the wagons, were locked in a vicious battle with a group of diminutive creatures.  
  
They were ugly, with squashed, wrinkled faces and slate gray skin the color of an overcast sky. Their short limbs were corded with muscle, and their eyes blazed with a wild blood-lust.  
  
Goblins.  
  
Ramza rapidly analyzed the situation and issued a quick series of orders. "Delita, Algus, you two circle around and try to take them from behind. Rosa, Gilliam, you're with me. Alberto, you hold back." With that, Ramza whipped out his sword. "Charge!"  
  
There were half-a-dozen of them, swarming about the caravan. The merchants and most of the guards lay dead already, but the fight was still going around an over-turned wagon. A young woman wielding a longbow stood atop it and was sending a steady stream of arrows into the goblin mob. A pile of goblin bodies near the wagon gave silent testimony to her accuracy. One particularly quick goblin managed to reach the wagon and began clambering aboard. The woman caught it in the face with a roundhouse kick, sending it sprawling to the ground. As her attention was drawn away, its companions scrambled forward.  
  
The woman had a moderate frame, compact and toughened by a harsh life on the road. Her wheat-colored hair was tied in a simple ponytail reaching her shoulders, and her brown eyes were locked in intense concentration as she struggled to survive.  
  
Distracted by the archer, the goblins failed to notice their new attackers until they were upon them. Two goblins were dead and three more wounded before they regained their wits and focused on Ramza's group.  
  
Gilliam found himself facing the unwounded goblin. He rushed in, thrusting his sword forward, but to his surprise the ugly creature shoved its arm up with a twist, catching the sword on the flat part and shoving it harmlessly over its head. Stepping forward with its left leg, it slammed its fists in a right, left, right combination into Gilliam's mid-section. The breath blasted out of him even through the leather armor he wore, Gilliam reeled back, unable to believe the strength of the scrawny creature.  
  
It started to follow up the attack, but rolled to the side as Rosa rushed in, swinging wildly. Two more closed in behind, when a thunderclap rocked the clear day.  
  
Gilliam looked towards the noise to find two scorched goblins dead on the ground and a dazed third struggling to fend off Ramza. Further off stood Alberto, a triumphant grin on his face. "So that's what he's been working on," Gilliam thought. Alberto with magic. That was a disturbing thought. Dismissing his new worries for the time, Gilliam returned his attention to the fight.  
  
Capitalizing on the confusion, Gilliam charged one of the goblins approaching Rosa from behind, driving his sword through its exposed ribs. As he turned towards the next one he found Ramza standing beside him, a green liquid dripping from his sword. By unspoken agreement they fanned out to either side, trapping the creature between them. It whipped its head back and for the between them, snarling like an animal. Suddenly it dove into a forward somersault, trying to escape the trap. Ramza tried to stab it before it could regain its feet, but the agile creature spun into a leg sweep knocking him to the ground. It leapt at him, only to be impaled by its own momentum on Gilliam's sword. Even then it refused to die, struggling towards Gilliam.  
  
"Will you just lay down and die?!" Gilliam shouted. Pulling his sword out, he swung it in a wide arc, cleaving the thing's head from its body. Gilliam was turning to assist Rosa, knowing she must be in similarly dire straits, when a dark blur whizzed by. The arrow came to a stop in the goblin's throat, dropping it and ending the fight. Gilliam looked up to see the archer drop to the ground, exhausted.  
  
"Whoever you people are," she gasped, "thank you."  
  
After a few short hours of tossing and turning, Gilliam awoke. He looked around the Igros barracks and the slumbering forms of his comrades. Dead-tired after the long march back from Dorter, they looked likely to sleep through a chocobo stampede. "I'm just as tired," he thought, "so why am I not joining them?" Sighing, he climbed out of his bunk and started towards the door. As he passed the lower bunk, a muttered noise drew his attention to Alberto's sleeping form.  
  
"Burning, burning, burn, everything! You are born to burn! Must burn."  
  
Gilliam sighed. Something told him that Alberto's learning magic might be a worse problem than the entire Death Corps. "Daravon," he thought, "I think you may have done a little too well on this one." Shaking his head, he left the barracks. Maybe a walk would clear his head.  
  
He wandered aimlessly, finally settling on the lake near the barracks. It was far enough from the encampment to be alone, but it was still within the limits of the base, so he wouldn't need to worry about the sentries. As he approached it, he heard an odd humming sound. Curious, he moved closer. After rounding an outcropping, he saw Ellis, the archer who had decided to join them after the fight against the goblin raiders, juggling three small stones. Her attention seemed completely focused on the difficult task, and she was quietly humming a soft tune. Gilliam stood frozen for a moment in awe at the sheer dexterity and grace of her moves, at the way she kept the rapid-moving rocks moving in a tight pattern through the air. Suddenly, it dawned on him that Ellis had come here for the same reason he had, and he finally turned to leave and give her some privacy. As he did, a branch cracked under his foot. Startled by the noise, Ellis's eyes jerked towards him. Her concentration lost, the delicate rhythm of her juggling was broken, and the stones scattered around her feet.  
  
"A, ah, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I was walking, heard a sound, ah, I'm very sorry," he stammered.  
  
She stared at him for a moment, than burst out into laughter at his babbling. "Calm down Gilliam, you'll bite your tongue off at the rate you're going."  
  
Sheepishly, Gilliam clamped his mouth shut before he managed to embarrass himself any further. Ellis gestured at a flat outcropping. "Sit. Now." Nearly tripping over his own feet, Gilliam complied. "Now," she continued as she sat down beside him, "what are you doing out here? Breathe before you talk."  
  
Gilliam did as she said. As he inhaled a deep breath, his momentary flash of anxiety faded, and was replaced by curiosity over his new comrade's activities. Ellis had been a puzzle ever since her impulsive decision to join Ramza after their meeting on the Mandalia Plains. "I'm sorry to have intruded. I had trouble sleeping so I went for a walk. I heard a noise over here and I came to find out what it was. Um, if you don't mind my asking, where did you learn to juggle like that?"  
  
Ellis gave a slightly sad smile. "My parents, they were part of a band of performers. I grew up on the road, and they taught me the tricks of the trade. It's just something I do now and then to remind me of them."  
  
"They're, gone?" Gilliam asked quietly.  
  
Ellis didn't respond immediately. She turned her head towards the lake and stared at the still waters for a long moment. Finally, she spoke. "It was during the War. Our troupe was caught between two groups of soldiers in one of the battles. Apparently their leader decided we were spies. We were attacked during the night; most of us were asleep. When I woke up the tents were burning. I managed to hide under some rubble. When I made my way out, everyone was wiped out." Ellis turned back towards Gilliam, moisture glistening in her eyes. "I can't even tell you which side they were on."  
  
Gilliam, stunned by the story, tried to come up with some sort of reply. Nothing seemed to fit, so he sat there, helpless to respond. Finally, Ellis looked back again, her features cheerful. "But that was a long time ago, ancient history. After that, I found a bow from one of the wagons that hadn't been completely destroyed. I'd learned to use it for our performances, so I knew how to use it. I've been traveling ever since; going along with whoever seemed interesting. I signed up with those merchants as a guard to reach Igros, and you know what happened from there."  
  
"Ellis, I, I." Gilliam groped for some sort of reply. Finally, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Can you teach me to juggle like that?" Mentally, he kicked himself for the idiotic reply, but to his surprise, Ellis laughed.  
  
"Sure, why not. Come, over here." With that, she grabbed his hand and dragged him from his seat. She scooped up two small rocks and tossed one to him. It hit him square in the face before he managed to catch it, but fortunately it wasn't moving that fast. "Now," she said, "The trick is to get the right rhythm. You hold it in one hand," she held it out in her right hand, "and then you move inwards and toss it." She did so, catching it in her left hand. "The trick is to toss inwards and catch outwards. Now you try."  
  
Gilliam did so. Naturally, it went skittering across the ground. Embarrassed, he picked it up and tried again. After a few tries, he caught it. "Good," she said, "Now you just need to toss it a little higher so you have time to position your hands." Uncertainly, Gilliam complied. Surprisingly, it really was easier to catch. "That's it! You're getting the basic motion, those are good throws."  
  
They continued for nearly an hour, before Gilliam finally begged for a break. Ellis smiled again, the moonlight shining off her bright face. "Alright, let's stop for tonight. We'll start on two balls next time. Bye."  
  
"Aren't you going back to the barracks?" Gilliam inquired. Ellis shook her head. "No, I'm going to stay out awhile longer. I'll see you tomorrow." With that, she turned away and sat on an outcropping and stared at the moon's reflection on the lake. Feeling oddly sad, Gilliam left for the barracks, where he promptly fell unconscious in his bunk.  
  
His arms hurt all the next day.  
  
His cloak plastered against him by the wild storm, his ears deafened by the resounding thunderclaps, Gilliam struggled to maintain his footing on the wet ground. He had been separated from the main group in the confusion of the downpour, and fought to regain his bearings. His gut clenched with nervousness. He was no longer an untested novice, but this was the first time they had gone against a prepared military fortress.  
  
One of the Death Corps bandits crept behind him, dagger poised to strike. Alerted by instinct or chance or fate, Gilliam turned just in time to block the attack with his shield. Gilliam feinted right; then, as the rebel dodged to the left he punched out with his other arm, catching the thief in the jaw with the edge of his shield. The man staggered back, and Gilliam rushed forward, hoping to finish him off before he recovered.  
  
A sharp pain lanced through his side as a dagger was thrust through a seam in his armor. He twisted away and regarded his new attacker. He was dressed in the same ordinary, worn clothing as his comrade. A fierce conviction burned in his eyes, and he whipped his blade with an easy grace that spoke of practiced skill. He began to attack again, but as Gilliam raised his shield in a defensive stance he darted to the side, trapping Gilliam between him and his comrade.  
  
Gilliam fought down a wave of panic and tried to think of a way out of this predicament. He was too far from the others to expect support, and with pain lancing through his side every with breath from the sneak attack, he knew he had little chance of winning a fight, outflanked as he was.  
  
The first soldier had risen to his feet by now, and with a murderous look in his eyes began to advance. Slowly, trying to hide the movement with his cloak, Gilliam unbuckled his shield.  
  
As the first soldier came at him, Gilliam flung the heavy buckler at him. He easily dodged the awkward projectile, but in the instant that he was distracted Gilliam dove into a forward roll. His foot lashed out, catching the ankle of the second thief as he tried to take advantage of Gilliam's distraction to stab him in the back. He stumbled, grabbing Gilliam as he fell. Together, they tumbled down the sloped ground of the fort. Gilliam's sword was jolted from his hands by the rapid, bruising descent. Finally, they crashed to a stop. The breath blasted out of their lungs, they rolled apart.  
  
The Death Corps soldier recovered first. Leaping forward, he tried to drive his dagger through the prone Gilliam's heart. His tanned leather armor turned the blow, and Gilliam retaliated with a roundhouse blow to the jaw. The thief fell to the ground beside him, dazed, and Gilliam was on him in a moment, his hands locked around the man's throat. His eyes bulged, he tried to stab Gilliam half a dozen times, but his arm was pinned by Gilliam's body, and there was no force beside the blows.  
  
Gilliam's conscience intervened at that moment, cutting through the adrenaline and rage and forcing him to realize he was about to kill a man with his bare hands.  
  
Gilliam relaxed his grip, and the man inhaled desperately. Gilliam leaned back and tried to decide what to do next. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and cursed his lack of forethought. The first soldier had come, and from the way he grinned as he lifted his dagger to strike Gilliam knew that he would not be shown the same mercy.  
  
The man jerked suddenly, standing perfectly erect. He looked down at Gilliam, a confused expression on his face. Still seeming puzzled, he fell forwards, landing sprawled atop Gilliam. Only then did Gilliam notice the shaft protruding from the man's back. He lifted his gaze, and saw Ellis standing nearby, already notching another arrow to her bow. He raised his hand to wave his thanks, then winced at the pain it cost him. Ellis noticed, and quickly rushed to his side.  
  
"Are you alright?" she asked, concern showing in her soft brown eyes.  
  
"I had better be." He replied through gritted teeth. "Help me up."  
  
"Are you sure it's safe to move with that wound?" Ellis inquired nervously.  
  
"Safer than it would be to lie around on my back here in the middle of a battle!"  
  
Leaning on Ellis's shoulder for support, Gilliam made his way to a breach in the old fortress's wall before collapsing. Ellis quickly scanned the surrounding area, than knelt besides Gilliam. She pulled a cloth bandage and a small vial from a pouch on her belt. "Hold still." Her hands shaking slightly, she peeled the top of his soaked uniform from his body. Then, she poured the contents of the vial onto the bandage and wrapped it around Gilliam's side.  
  
When she was done, she leaned back and sat down beside him. "The potion will disinfect the wound and speed up the healing process." Ellis explained, trying to distract him while she worked. "It should also help kill the pain. You need to rest for awhile to give it a chance to work though."  
  
Gilliam's voice was low, and trembled with exhaustion. "How is the fight going?"  
  
Ellis shook her head, her blond ponytail flapping wetly against her shoulders. "It's hard to say. Ramza and Delita were leading the fight head- on, but then there was a thunder strike nearby, I don't know if it was natural or magic. Things got confused, and both sides were scattered."  
  
Gilliam thought on that for awhile, than nodded. "Ramza will have everyone back together soon. He'll probably head for the gate while they're still off-balance."  
  
"That sounds like what he would do," Ellis agreed. "So, what do we do from here? You aren't in any condition to fight, and I'm not leaving you here!" The last part was spoken in a firm tone that told Gilliam right away that there was no chance of changing her mind. He tried a compromise.  
  
"We should look around. Most of the bandits are probably outside or at the walls, this is a great chance to catch them off-guard."  
  
Ellis thought about it, then grinned. "Well, I didn't join Ramza to sit around watching you bleed!"  
  
Gilliam pulled his wet shirt back on and stood carefully. Forcing a cocky expression, he shot back, "What are you waiting for, let's go!"  
  
From an empty second floor room, Gilliam and Ellis watched the scene in the courtyard below. Ramza, Algus and Delita were locked in a vicious combat with three Death Corps soldiers and a woman in patched white robes. The last one finished reciting a low chant, than pointed her hand at them as she raised her voice in a climax. "Swirling bolts, shatter the earth with your power!"  
  
A blast of azure blue energy lashed out from her out-stretched hand, blasting Ramza and Delita to the ground. Algus, just ahead of the attack, charged forwards, sword raised. The woman started to cast another spell, then, as he drew closer, lifted her staff in a futile attempt to block. Algus's furious chop snapped the wooden staff apart and drove into her chest. With a feral grin, he pulled it out and started for the nearest soldier, a blond haired woman.  
  
Ramza and Delita pulled themselves to their feet and tried to follow Algus, but the woman's two remaining comrades blocked their path. With a screech of tortured metal, the melee was complete.  
  
Algus tried to finish the woman as quickly as his last victim, but she turned out to be surprisingly skilled. She sidestepped his swing, and then followed up by shield rushing forward. Algus, unprepared for such a skillful maneuver from a peasant bandit, slipped on the wet stone. He rolled desperately, barely evading her downward stab. The woman shouted something Gilliam couldn't make out as she pursued him. He spat back at her as he managed to rise to her feet. "It's divine providence!"  
  
The woman shouted back angrily "What do you mean? God would never say such a thing! Before him we are all equal!"  
  
Algus, his face twisted with hatred, shouted back. "Animals have no God!"  
  
Ellis took careful aim and released the shaft, taking one of the soldiers facing Ramza in the neck. Reacting quickly, Ramza caught the man's comrade off-guard, running him through. They hurried towards Algus.  
  
Miluda began to lash out at Algus again, but then she noticed Algus's comrades rushing towards her. Cursing, she turned to flee towards the gate. From the window, Ellis drew a bead on Miluda, aiming right for her heart.  
  
Miluda would never even see it coming.  
  
Gilliam's hand shot forward, forcing Ellis's bow down. He shook his head. "Let her go." Ellis started to argue, but than nodded in agreement. They had both heard Algus' words.  
  
And the only one she truly wanted to kill was him.  
  
Teta's murder sent a shock through the group gathered around Fort Zeakden. Most of them had not known the girl; they knew nothing of her past, of how she had been taken in by the Beouvle family along with Delita. All they had known was that the Death Corps officer had held her as a hostage.  
  
And that she was fellow human being.  
  
Delita broke the silence with a low whisper. "Te. Teta."  
  
A Hotuken knight rushed forward, waving wildly. "General Zalbag, about fifty Death Corps soldiers have been sighted on the mountain path. I'm told one of them resembles Weigraf!"  
  
Zalbag, always the dutiful soldier, nodded rapidly. "Very well. Algus, I leave the matter in your hands!" With that, he sprinted off along with his retinue.  
  
Ramza, still stunned, looked to his former comrade. "Algus, why?"  
  
The wind stole Algus's reply from Gilliam's ears, but whatever he said seemed to awaken Delita from his trance. He whipped out his sword, and, with scream of rage that no human throat should have been able to produce, charged Algus. Algus whistled, and his bodyguard closed ranks around him. One of the wizards among them started a guttural chant. Ramza, stunned, continued to stand frozen, seeming not to notice the sudden peril.  
  
Ellis looked to her equally frozen companions. "What are you waiting for?! Fight!" With that, she unslung her bow and launched an arrow at Algus. The hard, icy wind prevented the slender shaft from hitting its distant target, but it had the effect of rousing her comrades. Fittingly, Alberto responded first.  
  
"I finally get to test my new Thunder Rod!"  
  
Naturally, Alberto was actually happy about this.  
  
Ellis's actions shocked Gilliam out of his reverie as well. His instinctive loyalty to Ramza obliterating his reserves against attacking fellow Hokuten soldiers, he rapidly scanned the developing fray. Noticing one of Algus's soldiers approaching Ramza from behind, he broke into a charge, drawing his sword with smooth movement as he went. The knight, a seasoned veteran, shifted his attention towards the new threat, falling into a low defensive crouch. Gilliam, sword gripped in both hands, rushed forward, than, just as the soldier thrust his sword forwards, Gilliam hurled himself into a roll to the side. The Hokuten soldier started to stumble, but recovered his balance rapidly and spun to the side just in time to meet Gilliam's counterattack. His blade caught Gilliam's in a desperate parry, inches from his face. Matching Gilliam's stare with his own, the experienced soldier slammed his head forward, catching Gilliam in the nose across the locked blades. Gilliam staggered back, than rolled to the ground in a desperate attempt to dodge the knight's stabbing sword.  
  
A blur zipped in, hurtling towards the man's heart. With lightning quick reflexes, he hurled himself to the side. Ellis started to notch another arrow, but a burst of fire blazed into existence around her, the searing flames hungrily seeking to incinerate her. She automatically hurled herself to the ground, her bow falling from her hands as she fought frantically to put out the flames.  
  
As the fire-wielding wizard smirked to herself, a crackling energy filled the air around her. With the stench of ozone in filling the air, she looked up curiously for a moment, her eyes widening in horror as she realized what that foretold. Realizing that it was too late to escape, she stood calmly and nodded respectfully towards Ramza's wizard.  
  
She wondered impassively, after all the people she had struck down with her own magic over the years, how much it would hurt.  
  
Alberto squealed happily as the amplified blast of lightning blasted the wizard, hurling her broken body to the ground like a rag doll. Laughing wildly, he spun around in a little circle, as joyful as a child with a new toy.  
  
The impromptu jig saved his life, as a bolt from Algus's crossbow caught him in the shoulder, whereas seconds ago it would have driven straight into his heart. The shock and force of the arrow hurled him to the ground. An unnatural darkness filled Alberto's vision, swirling into being like a dark mist before his eyes. At first he thought that the fading light meant his death, but as the pain of the crossbow bolt embedded in his arm began to lance through him he realized that the weapon that had struck him must have carried some sort of enchantment. Once again rewarded for his own utter lack of morality or conscience, he gritted his teeth helplessly and hoped no one would finish him off.  
  
Gilliam tumbled rapidly, using all of his agility in a desperate attempt to avoid the man lethally sharp sword point. The Hokuten knight, no novice to battle, pursued him closely, thrusting with deadly accuracy and giving him no chance to recover his feet. The knight's foot caught on a small dip in the snow, tripping him for a moment before he managed to recover. In the split-second it took him, Gilliam gathered his feet under him and leapt forward, sword pointed downward. The knight raised his sword in a skillful parry, but Gilliam, with a strength born of sheer terror, snapped the blade at the hilt. A long crack ran down his own blade as it rang with the sheer force of the blow, but Gilliam pressed the advantage. Drawing back to gain room to maneuver the heavy iron weapon, he rushed forwards, his sword driving through the man's armor and into his chest. The tip of the sword drove upward, slipping past the rib cage into the knight's lungs. His face contorted in horror, the knight stared into Gilliam's enraged face, looking for an answer. Closing his eyes, he slid off blade, darkness blotting out the pain.  
  
His anger fading with the immediate threat gone, Gilliam let his sword arm fall limply to his side as he panted for breath. As the roar of blood left his ears, he heard a quiet chuckle over the din of battle. He turned to see Algus's other wizard, her outstretched hand crackling with barely contained energy. She smiled coldly as she spoke. "All that, and for what? Swirling bolts, gather and."  
  
Somehow, by sheer, desperate fighting skill, coupled with the creature of raw, frenzied rage that was Delita, they had survived.  
  
Their strength, which had begun to slip away the moment Algus's corpse had hit the ground, vanished entirely as they numbly watched Delita and Teta consumed by the exploding powder. They collapsed, exhausted, the snowy, frozen dirt. Gilliam watched, shivering in the icy wind, as Rosa, who had by some miracle escaped injury, examined Ellis's burns and Alberto's wounded arm. Finally, she stood, and turned to Ramza, who still seemed stunned.  
  
"They'll live, but they need treatment, and bed rest. It'll be dark soon, and the temperature will be dropping. Also., sir, what do we do next? We've killed Hokuten soldiers, w. we could be executed!"  
  
As she spoke, all eyes fixed on Ramza. Even Alberto, his sight finally returned, seemed to be listening intently. They all instinctively trusted, needed, Ramza's guidance.  
  
His duty as a leader forcing him out of his reverie, Ramza closed his eyes, and for a moment the world seemed to stand still. When he opened them, all traces of doubt and indecision were gone, replaced by the calm, purposeful demeanor that they all trusted so much. He spoke rapidly, each word sounding with the clear, perfect dictation of a true nobleman.  
  
"Rosa, can Alberto and Ellis travel?"  
  
She shrugged. "They can, but they will have to be carried. I had to drug them to keep them from screaming from their wounds. They'll be dropping any moment now. I also need to apply some ointment to Ellis's burns, luckily Alberto had some on him."  
  
"Of course he does." Gilliam chimed in slightly sarcastically, trying to distract himself from his exhaustion. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but what else is he carrying around on him?"  
  
Rosa forced a grin, and Ramza shot him a grateful look for the attempt to lighten the move as he nodded. "Good. Gilliam, you carry Ellis, I have Alberto. Rosa, do whatever else you can to make them comfortable, but treatment will have to wait until we are out of danger. We will travel as far as the plateau for tonight, find a cave in the cliff to take cover in and try to decide what do tomorrow from there. Any questions?" No one spoke. "Then move out!"  
  
As they prepared to depart, Gilliam looked back to the still- burning Fort Zeakden. For the first time, the full weight of the night's events struck him. He had killed Hokuten troops. Within a week, there would be patrols searching for him, for all of them.  
  
He would be hung as a traitor and a murderer.  
  
He could still survive. He could run off, rejoin the rest of the army, and confess all to the first officer he found. He had been following his superior officer's orders, he couldn't be punished for that.  
  
Yes, he probably could do all that, but somehow, he didn't want to. Algus's murder of Teta, at Zalbag's own orders, had driven Gilliam's conscience to its limits. The doubts raised by Algus's words to Miluda had exploded into a horrible certainty. They, the nobles, the Hokuten, the nobility, they were the murderers, the bandits.  
  
In that horrible moment of realization, Gilliam Saryas realized that his whole life had been built on nothing left then the lives of innocent commoners.  
  
That knowledge, that truth, nearly broke him. Trembling with horror at just what he had been fighting to uphold, Gilliam raised his right hand before his face. He stared at the bejeweled signet ring on his finger, the emblem that marked him as a member of one of Ivalice's noble families. Slowly, he pulled it off, turning it over before his eyes. Placing it numbly into his palm, he closed his hand into a fist and held it over his heart.  
  
"I will have no more part in this evil," he whispered.  
  
With that, he drew his arm back and hurled it with all his strength. The glittering ring flew away from him with the speed of a sling bullet, coming to a halt in a snowdrift. The force of the throw buried it deep within the snow, along with the remains of Gilliam's former life.  
  
As he turned back, he saw Ramza watching him, an understanding look on his face. Gilliam started towards his, walking through the building snow towards the one man who seemed to stand for something more.  
  
The snow covered his footprints within minutes. 


	2. The Murdering Scum of the Earth

Chapter Two  
  
        The Murdering Scum of the Earth  
  
        As night fell on the fringes of Sweegy Woods, the merchant caravan slowly ground to a stop. With the practiced skill of men who had made this trip many, many times, the wagoners began to remove the chocobos' harnesses, pitch their tents, and prepare their evening meal. As they began to settle uneasily around the moving campfire, one man filled two bowls of stew and turned to the others. His short, raggedly cut red hair gleaming in the fire light, he dipped his scrawny body into a flamboyant bow.  
  
        "I believe I will deliver some sustenance to our noble sentries before I enjoy my own fine repast. Gentlemen, if you will excuse me.?" With that, he walked off towards the edge of the camp closest to the forbidding forest.  
  
        The merchants grinned as they watched the little man go. He had paid quite a bit for passage from Dorter to Igros, claiming that he needed to deliver an urgent message to the leaders of his company there. Although the hard-bitten traders would normally have viewed a noble's aide with barely concealed contempt, this man, Lanal, had rapidly gained their affection with his cheerful smile and friendly manner. Somehow, it was impossible not to like him.  
  
        As Lanal approached the two sentries, one of them jerked his crossbow towards him. As he managed to make out Lanal's features in the dim light, he sheepishly lowered it. His companion slapped him across the back of the head and gave Lanal an apologetic look.  
  
        "Sorry bout Wedge, eh's a moron."  
  
        A wide smile lighting up his freckled face and green eyes, Lanal placed the clay bowls between the two. As the famished hired guards began to shovel the scalding hot stew down their throats, he replied cheerfully. "Why, no need to thank me, most noble of guardians. In such a dangerous locale, one can hardly be faulted for being quick to ready one's weapon. It is entirely my fault for not calling out."  
  
        As the pair continued wolfing down their meals, Lanal suddenly pointed into the dark forest. "Something is approaching."  
  
        At Lanal's warning, the two rapidly grabbed their crossbows and peered into the gloom. One of them whispered back. "Where, I don't."  
  
        As he spoke, Lanal moved with a speed and agility neither of them would have expected from him. Seizing the one who had spoken from behind, he whipped out a concealed dagger.  
  
        Calmly, his smile not fading in the slightest, Lanal slashed the sentry's throat.  
  
        Wedge, hearing his companion's muffled gasp, spun around, his crossbow out to the side. "Biggs, wha." As he turned, Lanal darted forward, stabbing his dagger precisely through Wedge's eye and cutting off his words. Retracting the blade, Lanal tumbled to the ground, circling around him. As quick and deadly as a snake, he sprang up and drove the blade through Wedge's back and into his heart.  
  
        He had moved so rapidly that their blood did not even touch him.  
  
        After Wedge's corpse fell to the ground, Lanal crouched and calmly wiped his dagger clean on Wedge's cloak. Straightening, he replaced the dagger in its hidden sheath and produced a small whistle. Bringing it to his lips, he blew into it. The call of a bird that never ventured within a hundred miles of this place cut through the night.  
  
        That done, Lanal took a seat on the log where Wedge had been sitting and waited. As he did, he noticed one of the bowls of stew was only half- finished. Hearing a slight rumble from his taut belly, he picked it up and tasted it. After a moment's thought, he nodded his approval of the dish.  
  
        He hoped that the poison would not ruin the flavor for the rest of the merchants.   
  
        Lanal's attention snapped back to business as he heard the sound of someone approaching from the forest. He relaxed slightly as he recognized the maker of the sound, a dark-haired man wearing tanned robes and carrying a long, dark staff. He did not relax completely though.  
  
        He knew this man.  
  
        "Good evening, Chell," he said, abandoning his usual florid manner of speaking and friendly demeanor. Experience had taught his that it would not help with this one. "The others are in place?"  
  
        Chell, his coal black eyes as emotionless as a piece of stone, nodded once. "The first group will attack from the forest near here. The second group will sweep in from the west to cut off their escape. Drake is waiting in reserve to breakup any resistance." He paused, having spoken with no more feeling than if he had been ordering dinner in a tavern. "You remember our role?"  
  
        :Of course," Lanal replied, keeping the nervousness this man inspired in him from showing in his voice. He bent down, happy for an excuse not to look into Chell's cold, lifeless eyes, and sketched a crude map in the dirt. "Sentries are posted here, here, and here. The groups are small, only two each. We should split up to deal with them quickly. Most of the guards are stationed near the wagons; they did not want to be out too far at night in goblin country. There are more than I expected; the merchants must be spooked over something."  
  
        Still expressionless, Chell nodded again, the shoulder length braid he kept his hair in swinging lightly with the movement. He tapped the butt of his staff on one of the sentry post Lanal had indicated. "You deal with this one, the others are mine." With that, he turned and walked back into the night.  
  
        His love of talking overwhelming his resolution to remain silent, Lanal spoke. "Do you not even wish to ask how they are armed, how skilled they are?" he asked dryly.  
  
        Chell stopped and turned back towards him. "It would not make a difference," he said flatly.   
  
        Chell, his face an expressionless mask, rapidly analyzed the new situation. He had easily wiped out the first two sentries, but at the second post a new problem presented itself. Five soldiers, not two, clustered together there. They were talking loudly among themselves, and from what Chell could gather from their conversation the three additional men had come to warn of a growing problem in the main camp. Several of the merchants and guards there had suddenly fallen ill, and the sentries were being called back to help.  
  
        It would seem that Lanal's poison had done its work a bit too quickly. The sentries began to head off, back to their comrades. Chell could not allow that to happen.  
  
        He began a low, droning chant. As he spoke, his hands formed into an arcane pattern, moving in two opposing, but perfectly matched, rhythms. A relaxing, soothing energy began to gather around his outstretched hand. As the magical energy peaked, he pointed his hand towards the caravan guards and brought the chant to its climax. The spell flowed out, engulfing the soldiers' minds, lulling away at their alertness. The first one to succumb stood in the middle of the group. Without warning, he gave a great yawn and collapsed to the ground, fast asleep.  
  
        Patrick's first though was that Holen was playing some sort of prank. He started to tell him to knock it off, but as soon as he opened his mouth he found himself yawning as well. Suddenly, the thought of lying down and taking a nap seemed very appealing...  
  
        Just as he was about to fall to the ground, he caught a glimpse of a robed man amid the trees. The instincts born of years of traveling kicking in, he realized in a small corner of his mind that he was being attacked by magic. Alerted, he struggled to remain awake, trying to shout a warning to his comrades, who were also beginning to sway on their feet. Chell's magic, gripping his mind with chains that seemed stronger than mythril, drowned out his words with another yawn. Slowly, he began to slip to the ground...  
  
        Chell, not even feeling a flicker of excitement at the success of his spell, walked towards the sleeping men. Calmly, he raised his staff. One blow to the head each, he decided, that was all it would take.  
  
        Suddenly, one of the men leapt to his feet, drawing his sword as he rose. Charging forward, Patrick managed to catch Chell off-guard, his sword cutting into the oracle's side. Chell reacted faster than Patrick would have thought possible, spinning to the side and twirling his bo in a defensive pattern. Without taking his eyes from the man, Chell felt the wound. It bled, but he had managed to avoid any serious injury.  
  
        They circled, both combatants taking the other's measure. Patrick, no novice to battle, fought down a sense of unease. Finally, he spoke. "Who are you? What do you want?"  
  
        Calmly, Chell answered. "I am a member of a group of bandits. I intend to kill you, and every person in you group, and loot the goods you are transporting."  
  
        Honesty was a virtue Chell valued highly.  
  
        Chell's answer shocked Patrick, not so much the words as the calm, matter-of-fact way he said it. He broke the impasse, charging forward. He shouted, trying to trick Chell into believing he was off-balance. As Chell lifted his staff to block, Patrick switched gears, falling into a crouch and stabbing at his legs.  
  
        Chell, recognizing the feint and predicting the true attack, leapt up, the sword missing his feet by inches. As he rose, he spun, using the momentum to slam the end of his staff into the side of Patrick's head.  
  
        Reflex saved him. As Chell dodged his first attack, Patrick instinctively hurled himself to the side. The staff clipped him hard enough to make the world spin around him, but the roll deflected enough of the force to keep it from cracking his skull.  
  
        He continued to roll, the world spinning before him as he came to a stop. Chell started to advance and finish off his dazed opponent, but a noise from the side caught his attention. One of the other soldiers was coming to. Abandoning Patrick for the moment, he leapt at the awakening soldier, his feet landing directly on the man's throat. With a sickening crack, the man's eyes were shut once more, this time permanently.  
  
        Horrified, Patrick forced himself to his feet. "Y-You bastard!"  
  
        For the first time, a slight smile crossed Chell's face. "Now or later, it makes no difference. Don't worry, you will be next."  
  
        His blood boiling at the sight of the brutal murder of his comrade, Patrick charged Chell recklessly. With a quick spin, Chell sent him back to ground.  
  
        "Did you really think you had a chance? I was once a Knight of the Touten, the greatest warriors Ivalice has ever known!"  
  
        Rising to his feet once more, Patrick spat at him. "I will kill you!" he screamed.  
  
        "Unlikely." With that, Chell began to chant once more. A cold, empty void formed within him, a spot utterly devoid of energy. Smirking, he looked at Patrick and sent it out. The emptiness enveloped Patrick, draining his life-force away. As the void filled itself, Patrick fell to the ground, totally still. The stolen energy flowed into Chell, warming his body. The cut in his side glowed for a moment, then closed of its own accord, leaving only a bloody tear in his robes. Grinning in perverse pleasure at the sensation, Chell stretched like a cat.  
  
        The distraction dealt with, he turned his attention to the other sleeping soldiers. A sadistic grin on his face, he hefted his staff once more. *****  
  
        As men fell to the ground around him, vomiting and retching, Rulan knew that an attack was coming. The experienced leader of the caravan's guards turned to the portly merchant beside him, a silent question written on his face. The man, Tyler, shook his head. "Not enough. I had enough anti-toxin for us and a few other guards, but not for all of them. I doubt it would do much good at this point anyway, they couldn't hold it down."  
  
        The swordsman nodded reluctantly. "How bad is it going to be?"  
  
        Tyler shook his head once more. "I can't be sure without knowing exactly what they took, but from what I've seen, it shouldn't kill them. They'll be trying to spit their organs out of their mouths for the rest of the night, but it doesn't seem strong enough to kill them."  
  
        "Meaning that whoever is behind it will be attacking soon. I need them ready to fight old friend!"  
  
        Tyler winced at his old comrade's words. He started to reply, but was interrupted by the thunder of a charge. From out of the forest, riders on chocobo back were hurtling into the camp, swords drawn and spears set. At the sight of the riders, a force that appeared as disciplined as any regiment he had seen during the War, the chemist-turned-merchant's heart fell into his feet. He met Rulan's eyes for a moment, saw his own fear's mirrored there, and then the Guard Captain was drawing his sword and rushing out, shouting at his ill men to form ranks and to fight these bandits (and what else could they be?) off.  
  
        Tyler, with a courage that belied his lack of fighting skills, started to follow, but then remembered something. Turning, he dashed in the opposite direction, towards the wagons.  
  
          
  
Rulan, already in the middle of his men, caught Tyler's flight out of the corner of his eye. He surprised by his old friend's uncharacteristic abandonment, but he could not blame him. "Run fast, old friend", he thought, "I don't know how long I can hold them off." Returning his attention to the fight at hand, he continued to shout orders, going so far as to pull his drug-slowed men to their feet. They ran, heading towards the wagons, praying that the structures would give them a place to fend off the raiders, praying that they could make it at all.  
  
        Against the incredible speed of a chocobo, this was a desperate prayer indeed.  
  
        Tyler tore through his cabin, finally finding the chest he was looking for. He hurled the contents out without a second thought, sending articles of clothing flying across the room. Finally, at the very bottom, he found what he was looking for. Smiling, his hands closed on the long, hard metal object.  
  
        They almost made it, were barely fifty feet away from the wagons. But the raiders, seeing their plan, cut them off, their swift steeds bringing them between the guards and their destination. Rulan's spirit sank, knowing that they were doomed, knowing that there was no way they could stand against a full out mounted charge on open ground. Grinning, the leader of the riders raised his free hand, preparing to give the order.  
  
        A loud cracking noise shot through the night before he could speak. The bandit fell forward in his saddle, a gaping hole in his skull. His comrades (and the merchant guards!) twisted their heads to see the source of the noise, and the lethal shot. Tyler stood their, atop the roof of one of the wagons, rifle in hand.  
  
        "And you laughed at me when I bought this from the machinist!" the brave merchant roared at Rulan. The rare Romandan weapon had cost him a small fortune, but in that moment the normal stingy Tyler did not begrudge a single coin of it. Moving quickly, he reloaded, this time aiming for the mounts, trying to panic them.  
  
        Rulan, having to fight back tears at the sight of his old comrade, raised his sword. "Charge!" The guards, adrenaline outweighing sickness for the moment, obeyed, catching raiders with their backs turned. For the first time, it seemed they might win.  
  
        From the fringes of the wagons, two cold eyes regarded the fight. With the unanticipated actions of the merchant, the caravan guards had gained a fighting chance. Time to take that away. Flexing powerful leg muscles, the Dragoon leapt into the air. With a strength that was more than physical, the heavily armored Dragoon hurtled through the night air. As his leap began to arc to the ground, he aimed his long, deadly spear.  
  
        He landed with massive force, the lance blasting effortlessly through Tyler's unarmored chest, snapping his spine and ripping his heart apart. As he came to a standing position, the Dragoon tore the spear back out viciously, ripping half of the valiant merchant's torso out. Tyler never even saw the man who killed him.   
  
Rulan, seeing his friend's sudden, horrible death, felt as though part of his own heart had been torn away. His reason blasted away by rage at the murderous sight, he screamed in outrage. Abandoning the melee with the riders, in which they had actually been beginning to gain the upper hand, he charged the Dragoon, his vision red. Seeing the charge, the Dragoon smiled slightly beneath his helmet. He leapt into the air once more. Rulan, canny even through his outrage, waited until the last second, then hurled himself to the side. The Dragoon's attack just barely missed him, the spear slamming half its length into the dirt. With no apparent effort or strain, The Dragoon pulled it out and brought it into a fighting stance. Rapidly regaining his feet, Rulan took a similar stance, and began to examine his foe.   
  
The Dragoon wore heavy armor, covering every inch of his body, from his booted feet, to his the raised blades on the forearms of his gauntlets, to the draconic mask that concealed his facial features. Both hands gripped a razor-sharp spear nearly as tall as his six foot frame in a easy, experienced manner, and despite all the armor he wore and the wild fury of the raging battle the man seemed completely relaxed, the mark of a true fighting master. The warrior stood silently, waiting for Rulan to make the first move. Rulan knew he was in trouble, knew by the sheer calm of the Dragoon's manner that this would likely be the most difficult fight of his life. He spoke, trying to gain some information of his adversary.   
  
"Who are you?" The man stood there, silent, for several moments. Rulan, realizing that the man would not reply, darted forward, screaming a battle cry. "You won't catch me from behind!" he bellowed. He was over-balanced, in his rage he left himself almost completely open to attack.   
  
Exactly as he intended to. As the Dragoon's thrust his spear forward, the cunning swordsman reversed himself, falling into a backwards roll. The spear passed harmlessly over his head as he stopped in a crouch. He wasted no time in stabbing at the dragoons exposed side. Blindingly fast, the Dragoon reversed his spear, slamming the butt into Rulan's head. The blow sent the swordsman sprawling. Shaking his head, he leapt back to his feet to fend off the pending charge. But the Dragoon was nowhere to be seen. For one moment Rulan stood in confusion, before he realized the only possible answer to the puzzle. He spun, sword flashing before him in a desperate attempt to parry.   
  
One second too late. The Dragoon's spear slammed through his chest, tearing the leather armor he wore as though it were dry parchment. His masked face inches away from his victim's wide-eyed face, he spoke, his voice as cold as the spear through Rulan's heart. "I am Drake. And you were incorrect."   
  
With that, he let Rulan fall to the ground. Planting a foot on his stomach, Drake tore his lance out triumphantly. He lifted his head to see that the second battle group had arrived, and that the remaining guards and merchants were being slaughtered. Smiling beneath his all-concealing helmet, he walked away. His men could handle the rest.   
  
*****  
  
        As the last of the caravan's owners died beneath the bandit's blades, Lanal and Chell made their way back. Drake stood before them, eyes turned to the wagons, where the rest of his men were carrying out the looting. Not bothering to look towards them, he spoke. "There were no escapees?"  
  
        "None." Lanal replied casually, "Although a few did try."  
  
        Drake finally did turn towards his two lieutenants, his stare fixing on Lanal. "You did not discover the merchant's rifle. That could have proved disastrous."  
  
        Lanal, adrenaline beginning to pump through him, began to stammer a response. "He never took it out, I could not search every merchant's private quarters, I…"  
  
        Finally, Drake cut him off with a laugh. "But then, is exactly why I was there!"  
  
        Lanal, realizing that his old comrade from the Touten was not angry at him, joined in Drake's laughter, even going so far as to place a hand on his leader's armored shoulder. As he did, he carefully hid a sigh of relief. Of all the people in the world, his old commander was the last person he wanted angry at him! He looked to the corpses of the men Drake had slain that night.  
  
        And now he had two more examples of why not. 


	3. Muddy Boots

Chapter Three  
Muddy Boots  
  
The sun was setting, a cold wind blew, and it was beginning to rain.  
As he stood in the alleyway, cloak wrapped tightly around him to ward of the chill, Gilliam reflected on how aptly that described the course his life had taken. In the months since Fort Zeakden, they had taken to the shadows, sleeping in bedrolls off the side of the road and only traveling in slums like this God-forsaken part of Dorter.  
He tried to count his blessings. Despite their fears, there was no sign that the Hokuten were pursuing them. Gilliam suspected that some of Ramza's kin were to thank for that, normally deserting soldiers would have been hunted from one end of Ivalice to the other. Saved by a family name, that thought left a bad taste in Gilliam's mouth.  
A noise at the opening of the alley drew his attention from his depressed musings. Warily, he gripped the hilt of his sword under his cloak as two hooded figures entered the alley. He relaxed immediately as one of them threw back her cloak, revealing a tanned face and a straw-colored shoulder length ponytail. For some reason, the sight of Ellis cheered him from his gloom. He smiled for the first time in days, and gestured to a spot sheltered from the drizzle.  
As she and Alberto took cover under the over-hanging roof, Gilliam asked the obvious question. "Where is Ramza?" When they had split up, Ramza had been traveling with them. Gilliam had volunteered to join them as well, but Ramza had chosen Alberto. He had reasoned that it would be best to keep the mage away from settled areas as much as possible.  
Gilliam could not argue with that logic.  
"He's meeting with a mercenary leader, goes by the name of Gafgarion. I'm told he was a general during the War. If it goes well, we'll end up working for him."  
Gilliam nodded, trying to hide a wince at the news. So this was what it had come to. Common mercenaries. His temporarily elevated spirits plummeting once more, he tried to look at it objectively. This would give them a better chance to fade out of sight. Still.  
He changed the subject. "We have rooms at one of the inns. Rosa is waiting in the common room. He tried to smile convincingly. "Let's get out of the rain."  
As he led them to the inn, his boots, once kept polished to absolute perfection, were splattered with mud from the many puddles in the dirt streets. Once, that would have upset him. Now, he did not even notice it. They were scuffed beyond redemption already, and by now, he was used to it. ***  
  
As Gilliam met with Alberto and Ellis, Rosa sat in a small table in the corner of the inn's first floor, staring into the swill that passed for a drink here. Trying not to taste the stuff, she gulped the mug down and called for another. As she waited for the next round, her gaze swept across the room. It was, she thought, the exact last place a member of the nobility was likely to be. The tables and stools were hard, uncomfortable wooden things, scarred and dented by past brawls. Her fingers absently traced a long cut down the center of her own table that appeared to have been made by a battle-ax.  
The patrons were of a similar nature. A combination of wagon guards, mercenaries, and smugglers crowded the place, with enough coming in to replace the drunks thrown out into the street when they finally lost consciousness. As near as Rosa could tell, she was the only woman present who was not either on a man's lap or angling for the position. She would have bet every Gil she had that money was involved in that arrangement. Tiring of the scenery, she dropped her head to the table and closed her eyes. She instantly regretted it as something sticky adhered her forehead to the table. With an effort, she lifted it back up. As the barmaid came by with her drink, Rosa grabbed her arm. "And a wet rag." The woman nodded sullenly and stomped off. As she did, Rosa caught sight of Gilliam entering the bar, Ellis and Alberto in tow. Encouraged ever so slightly by the prospect that she would be able to leave this miserable sinkhole soon, she waved to him. As she did, an extremely drunk chocobo driver laid his grubby hand on her forearm. "Hey there, pretty lady, you want some company?" he slurred. "I have company," Rosa replied coldly, hoping the man would take the hint. He didn't. "So pretty, wha do ya say? I got me pay today, and I'm leaving tomorrow." "Bon Voyage," she shot back, pulling free from his grip. "Bitch!" he shouted, grabbing her again. In one quick motion, Rosa eluded his grasp, pulled her arm forward, and spun backwards, slamming her elbow into the man's face. He fell back, blood streaming out of his broken nose. He crashed into her table, slamming it and him to the floor. He also knocked Rosa's drink down. That ticked her off. The man stumbled back to his feet and spat out a tooth. Cursing crudely, he charged Rosa. Rosa waited until the last moment, than leapt to the side like a bull fighter. Not bothering to draw her sword, she picked up the stool she had been sitting on. As the man turned for another try, she slammed it over his head. Hard. That probably would have been enough to discourage him. Rosa could probably have walked away at that point, and he would have happily let her go. That wasn't the point. Rosa, months of frustration finally given an outlet, would not let him go. Screaming with rage, she smashed the stool over his head again, and again. It slipped out of her grasp at that point, but she was not about to stop, not now. Grabbing him by the throat, she began to pummel him in the gut, the face, anywhere she could reach. Out of nowhere, a hand caught her wrist, forcing her to halt the frenzied beating. She looked up angrily, preparing to lash out at her new adversary. She froze as she saw the man's face. It was Gilliam. "I think you can stop now," he said quietly. "He's not going to bother you anymore." Rosa, still enraged, started to pull away. Damn filthy peasant, she thought, serves him right. A voice in the back of her mind cut through the anger and the alcohol. And what about Ellis? She's a peasant too. Are you going to attack her too? Chagrined, Rosa relaxed and looked at the man. He was unconscious, covered with bruises. She had gone too far. Embarrassed, she looked back at Gilliam. "Uh, I, uh." Ellis's voice cut her off. "I think we might want to find another place to spend the night." Rosa and Gilliam looked towards her to see that she had an arrow drawn to her bow and aimed at a number of people, presumably the man's friends. Feeling both guilty and happy at the excuse not to have to explain herself, Rosa rose to her feet shakily. "Let's go, now." *****  
  
After fleeing the inn, Ellis led them through a series of side streets and turns, making sure that no one followed them. Finally, they made it to another inn, even more run down than the last. Not bothering to risk spending time in the common room, they spoke to the innkeeper, handed over the payment, and rented a pair of rooms. They all gathered in one of them. Quietly, Ellis looked them over.  
They were tired. Not just from the incident in the bar, they were exhausted, mentally. Traveling was nothing new to Ellis, but she realized that to nobles, raised all their lives to believe in their own superiority, deserting and living as fugitives had to be a shock. She looked to Gilliam.  
He tried to hide it, masking it with a smile whenever he looked at her, but the way he frowned or winced whenever he thought no one was looking showed the truth under that façade. Gilliam was depressed. His eyes, while alert, were a bit blurry, Ellis suspected he had not been sleeping well.  
Rosa did not look much better. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her body shook, both from the alcohol and the adrenaline wearing off. She swayed slightly on her feet, and Ellis wondered just how much she had drank today.  
Ramza had seemed much the same before they parted, silent and staring off into nothing whenever he was not wearing the mask of a leader. He was a member of one of the great families; this had to be hardest on him.  
She looked to Alberto. He seemed fine. Ellis was not entirely sure the insane wizard had even noticed that they had defected. More likely, she thought, he simply did not care as long as he had excuses to blow things up. Well, that was one way to deal with stress.  
"What are Ramza's orders?"  
Gilliam's words cut through Ellis's thoughts, drawing her back to the present. She started to pace to hide her momentary surprise, gathering her thoughts.  
"Ramza is trying to find a place for him, and us, with a former soldier who went mercenary. He told me to tell you that and two other things. First, he wants us to try to find some sort of job here. Our funds are low, plus we need to make ourselves seem useful to this guy. There's a man here in town I know of that should be able to fix us up with some sort of work, guy's call Tiran."  
Rosa's head jerked at that sound. "I know him, he's had dealings with my family. He's one of our trade agents."  
Ellis nodded. "Among other things, Tiran hires guards and mercenaries for traveling merchants and to deal with problems that the government is slow to deal with. He's a fairly major player around here, he comes into contact with almost everything."  
Gilliam frowned. "That could pose a problem. If he deals with the noble families on a regular basis, he might recognize Rosa, or me. It. might be better if you handle the negotiations alone."  
Ellis thought about it, then nodded. "He can be found at a small restaurant uptown, called 'The Juravis's Eggs.' I'll met him there tomorrow." Ellis took a deep breath before continuing.  
"Ramza wanted me to deliver one other message. He says, that if anyone wants to leave, he will understand completely."  
The company exchanged looks quietly at that, thinking about the offer. Why had they stayed with Ramza? He was the one most likely to be sought, the one most likely to endanger them. Why not leave?  
Finally, Alberto broke the silence. "Of course we won't leave, working for Ramza is too much fun!"  
In unison, they all turned to stare incredulously at Alberto. Finally, Rosa, perhaps aided by her slightly inebriated state of mind, began to chuckle. It quickly turned into a full blown laughing fit, with Ellis and Gilliam joining in soon afterwards.  
A minute later, Ellis wiped the tears from her eye. "That's what I thought. Well, if there's nothing else, let's get some sleep." No objections were raised, and Gilliam and Alberto retired to their room. Soon, they where asleep.  
Except for Gilliam. Restless, he stood by the small window and looked out at the starry heavens above, long into the night. The worries of the last few months swirled through his mind, chasing away all hope of slumber.  
Being expected to sleep in the same room as Alberto may have had something to do with it as well. 


	4. Prelude to a Nightmare

Chapter Four  
  
Prelude to a Nightmare   
  
As Ellis stood across the street from "The Juravis's Eggs," she examined it and her surroundings carefully. She was no longer in the slums, that much was clear. The street was clean and well-kept, and there was not a beggar, drunk, or bum in sight. The restaurant, a spacious, white stone building lit by beautifully made windows, reflected the upper class feel of the neighborhood as well.  
  
She caught her reflection in a nearby window, uncharacteristically self-conscious. She was dressed in the least worn clothing she owned, and her customary longbow was stowed unstrung with the rest of her belongings in the inn. She felt almost naked without it, but she forced the nervousness down. She could hardly walk into an upscale restaurant with the weapon slung over her shoulders! Drawing in a deep breath, she crossed the cobble stone street and strode toward the door.  
  
Two heavy-set men immediately blocked her way. A smaller, well-dressed man stood of to the side, a sour expression on his face. He looked her over, sniffing disdainfully at her somewhat threadbare leggings and jerkin. "Do you have an appointment," he paused for a moment and spoke the last word contemptuously, "Lady?"  
  
Ellis flipped her head back, trying to appear confident. "I am here to see Sir Tiran. Is he here?"  
  
The man sneered. "Master Tiran has better things to do than speak to every peasant," he spat the word in the tone most people used for 'whore, "that wanders in. Now, would you please remove yourself from the entrance to this establishment?"  
  
Ellis, suddenly finding herself wishing devoutly that she had brought her bow, etiquette be damned, started to step towards the man, a protest forming on her lips. One of the bouncers instantly blocked her path, while the other grabbed her from behind. Just as Ellis's hand began to inch towards the concealed dagger she carried with her, a cultured, faintly amused voice interrupted them.  
  
"I believe the lady said she has business with me, Odel."  
  
All four of them turned to regard the speaker. He was a tall man, in his early thirties, with gray eyes and jet black hair cut in the latest fashion. As he regarded the scene, he absently stroked the thick mustache and tightly clipped goatee that adorned his face.  
  
Ellis shook off the tough's hands and smiled at the man, "Tiran," she said warmly, hoping this was indeed the man she had come to meet, "it's good to see you, although the hired help could stand some improvement."  
  
Gallantly, Tiran took Ellis's outstretched hand and raised it to his lips. "Terribly sorry, my dear," although in truth he had not the slightest idea who the woman was. "Perhaps we could discuss the matter inside?"  
  
Certainly," Ellis replied.  
  
"B-But," Odel tried to sputter out a protest. Tiran silenced the pompous doorman with an icy glare. "I'll deal with you later." He turned back towards Ellis and bowed graciously. "Shall we?" With that, he led the young adventurer inside.  
  
After they were seated, Tiran cocked an eyebrow quizzically. "While I am always happy to make the acquaintance of a beautiful young lady, I am also somewhat curious. Would you kindly grace me with the knowledge of your name and the matter for which you came?"  
  
Ellis nodded. "My name is Ellis, and I represent my company of mercenaries. A man by the name of Gafgarion suggested that I speak with you regarding a job, and that I not try to arrange an appointment at you office."  
  
Tiran smiled wryly. "My secretary would have kept you waiting for a month," he agreed. "I must admit, I am surprised that Gaff was able to find someone so soon. No matter how many times I work with the man, he never ceases to amaze me. He is a resourceful one, I'll give him that." He chuckled slightly, then added, "Please inform him that his commission will be delivered the usual way and will be the usual amount."  
  
Resourceful indeed, Ellis thought dryly. When Gafgarion had mentioned Tiran to Ramza, seemingly off-handedly, all he had said was that Tiran "might be worth speaking to, if you are needin' money. Just let him know old Gaff sent you." Mentally raising he opinion of Gafgarion several notches, she did her best to cover her surprise with another smile.  
  
"Well, you know how he is. So tell me, what exactly is this job? Gaff didn't say." The old bastard, she added silently.  
  
Tiran's face grew more serious. In a sober tone of voice, he explained the situation. "Over the last year, several merchant convoys have been ambushed, or to be more accurate, slaughtered, on the route through Sweegy from Dorter to Igros. We do not know any details about the bandits responsible, except that they are apparently well armed, well trained, and extremely skilled. There have been no survivors." He paused grimly, then continued. "Furthermore, due to the nature of the attacks, we suspect that they have at least one agent in the shipping guild."  
  
He took a sip of his drink, then looked up as his meal arrived. "And another for the lady," he told the waiter. He winked mischievously at Ellis. "My treat." He straightened slightly, then turned serious again. "We have, of course, petitioned the Hokuten for aid, but they have been caught up in that business with the Death Corps. And, now that they have been put down, they appear to be gearing up for something else, something no one is willing to talk about." He sighed. "And that is where you come in." How many people did you say your company contains?"  
  
"Four," she replied, trying to sound casual.  
  
"Four?!" Tiran said incredulously, sounding surprised for the first time. "That's all?!"  
  
"We fight like a dozen," Ellis replied coolly, inwardly wondering whether they actually dared take on this job. It would be extremely risky, but they were desperate for funds. Besides, it was rapidly becoming clear to Ellis that this job was Gafgarion's way of taking their measure. They would have to try, the old mercenary was likely their best chance at surviving now.  
  
"You would have to," Tiran replied a bit absently as he absorbed the information. Only four. Well, it was certainly less than he had hoped for, but it would have to do. Besides, and this thought encouraged him, Gafgarion had sent them. He doubted that the canny old warrior would have sent so few if he did not trust them to get the job done. He looked back to Ellis.  
  
"Can you depart tomorrow morning?"  
  
***  
  
  
  
  
  
As Ellis left the restaurant, she nearly collided with a slender, red-haired man dressed in fine clothing. He nimbly stepped to the side, then caught her as she started to stumble, darting forwards with cat-like agility. "Are you well, noble lady?" he asked solicitously, although he could tell she was as much a peasant as himself.  
  
Ellis, embarrassed, started to reply, then froze as she saw his face, an inexplicable terror coursing through her body. She backed away, stuttering an apology, then all ran out the door. Lanal regarded her curiously, then shrugged, dismissing the matter. Spotting his quarry, he gave a wave. "Tiran old friend, how are you doing?"  
  
***  
  
  
  
  
  
Ellis fled from the restaurant in a cold sweat, charging through the streets at a breakneck pace. She earned more than a few angry looks and curses as she shoved her way past anyone who stood in her way. Spotting a side road, she turned into an empty alley between streets. Finally alone, she leaned against the wall, trembling in fear from the strange, almost primal terror that the man had inspired in her. Slowly, she slid down the wall and came to a sitting position. Trying to control her panting breath, she tried to make sense of what was going on.  
  
Why was she so frightened? Mentally, she replayed the encounter, trying to determine the cause of her bizarre reaction. The man had appeared perfectly unthreatening, he had been completely polite, even gentile in his manner. So why had every instinct she had screamed at her to flee?  
  
It was a long time before Ellis was able to regain her composure enough to rise to her feet, and even longer before she was able to walk out of the alley. After regaining her bearings, she made her way back to the inn the party where the party was staying. She tried to write off the encounter as a fluke, unable to find an explanation for her response. It was only a fluke, nothing important, she told herself repeatedly.  
  
But Lanal's face haunted her every step of the way, and was in her nightmares that night.  
  
***  
  
  
  
  
  
After exchanging pleasantries, Tiran quickly got down to business. "So, Derson, to what do I owe the pleasure?"  
  
Lanal sipped his wine before replying. "I have been sent by my employers in the shipping guild to inquire as to the extra security arrangements."  
  
Tiran nodded. "Of course, I have a list right here." As Tiran searched for the papers detailing the merchant convoy routes and the security for the next quarter's caravans, Lanal leaned back slightly. Idly, he wondered if the real Derson's body had been found yet. Probably not, it had been weighted down and the harbor fish had likely turned the corpse into a skeleton by now. Not that it would matter either way much longer.  
  
"Here you go," Tiran said, handing a sheaf of documents over. Lanal bent down and examined them intently. Tiran explained. "I've managed to hire extra guards for the caravans that will be making the trip this month. They aren't as heavily guarded as I would like, most of our resources are being directed to catching the bandits behind the attacks.  
  
"I see," Lanal replied, his face the picture of concern, "pray, what is being done to deal with these vile brigands?"  
  
"We outfitted a number of fake convoys as traps. They are listed as carrying valuable goods, but they are actually packed with soldiers."  
  
"Listed?" Lanal echoed curiously. It was a good thing he had taken the true guild agent's place, he had not known about this. "Listed on our forms?"  
  
Tiran looked slightly uncomfortable. "Yes. Don't take this the wrong way, but we suspect there is a leak somewhere in your guild. I'd appreciate it if you kept this to yourself for now, there's no telling how high up it might go."  
  
Lanal assured him that discretion would not be a problem.  
  
"What worries me," Lanal continued, is this caravan," picking up the schedule for the convoy in question. "I managed to find some guards for it, but it is still seriously undermanned, and the leader insists on leaving tomorrow."  
  
"How many have you been able to find?" Lanal inquired, sensing an easy target.  
  
"I was only able to find four people, plus the usual escort."  
  
Lanal's brow creased as he pretended to come to a decision. "Perhaps I can assist you with that. I have guild business to attend to in Igros, and require transport. If I travel with the under-defended caravan, I could requisition company guards to accompany me."  
  
Tiran looked at him gratefully. "You would do that? I could be very dangerous to you."  
  
Lanal waved off the warning. "Always happy to help." With that, he raised his cup. "A toast, to good business!"  
  
Tiran quickly joined in. Well, he thought, that was one problem solved.  
  
***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Alberto, having finally managed to ditch his annoying companions, looked around the shop. It was a bizarre place, dedicated to rare, magical, or just plain weird artifacts. Strange, mismatched talismans decorated the shelves and walls. A full quarter of the space was devoted to jars filled with arcane components. Towards the back, where the counter behind which the old woman who ran the place sat, there was a rack displaying dozens of rods and staves. Higher up, the walls were adorned with the stuffed or shrunken heads of creatures even he did not recognize.  
  
Alberto felt perfectly at home here.  
  
He walked up to the old crone, not sparing the collected staves a second glance. She leered crookedly at him, revealing yellowed stumps of teeth, and launched on her spiel.  
  
"Welcome young sir, what do you seek? I have rods that hold shards of the very hellfire within them, bracers that can lend your arms the strength and skill of a goblin, and potions that..."   
  
"Nothing out here is worth my time," Alberto interrupted bluntly. "What else do you have here?"  
  
The crone's leer faded into a startled, then pleased smile. "Sorry about that. Most of the people who come here are either no talent hacks or merchants looking for an edge." She ambled over to the bookshelf behind her, pulled out a thick volume, and reached into the gap. Pulling an unseen lever, she triggered the passage. A patch of the wall to the side of the bookcase slid aside. "The good stuff is back here." With that, she motioned for him to follow and walked through the passage.   
  
Alberto followed, and looked around the hidden room with interest.  
  
It was cluttered, with stands, pedestals, and bookshelves scattered haphazardly about the stone, checkerboard floor. Various tapestries and scrolls covered the blue painted walls, seeming utterly out of place in a shop located in an out of the way side street like one. But most of all, this place, unlike the public part of the shop, reverberated with magical auras to Alberto's refined senses.  
  
He returned his gaze to the old woman. Something about her seemed odd to him, a barely visible distortion that seemed to surround her like a translucent crystalline veil.  
  
She noted his scrutiny and smiled. "Nothing slips past you, does it?" With that, she half closed her eyes and splayed her hands out before her, the thumbs and pointer fingers meeting to form a triangle. She murmured something, and the space around her seemed to ripple, obscuring her from sight. It cleared after a few moments, revealing a completely different sight.  
  
She was young, seeming barely into her twenties. Her face, no longer wrinkled, was stunningly beautiful, covered with an exotic tan. She smiled dazzlingly; revealing white teeth in place of the crone's yellowed stumps. Her emerald eyes shown with a fey glow, and her red hair, which reached the small of her back, was gathered in three intricately woven braids.  
  
"My name is Meroe. Sorry about the disguise, but it cuts down on suitors in this neighborhood. Now, are you looking for anything in particular?"  
  
Alberto, of course, did not find any of this to be odd.  
  
He pulled a satchel from beneath his robes. Setting it down on the floor, he opened it, revealing four solid black eggs. He looked up. "Ahriman eggs, they should be hatching within a week. I have heard you collect them."  
  
Meroe knelt down beside him and withdrew one of the perfectly spherical ebony orbs. Not even bothering to try to hide her excitement, she ran her fingers along its uncannily smooth surface, squealing slightly as she detected a slight movement within. She looked to Alberto, a joyful smile on her face. "I assume you will be wanting to trade?"  
  
"What do you have?"  
  
Meroe gestured around the room distractedly. "Feel free to look around," she said absently, her attention still rapt on the eggs.  
  
Alberto, taking her up on her offer, began to wander the room. Many magical weapons were on display in glass cases. Before him a red bladed sword rested on one cushion, while on a nearby pedestal stood a bow Ellis would have killed for. Instead of wood, it seemed to be made of some sort of flexible blue crystal. Picking it up, he pulled it. The crystalline substance, which radiated a supernatural chill, bent stiffly. When he released it, it sprang back into position with amazing speed. An arrow shot from this would likely put a crossbow to shame. Beside the bow was a quiver full of arrows. Pulling one out, he saw that they were made of the same material.  
  
Replacing the weapon, Alberto turned his attention to the bookshelves. A dark, metal bound volume there immediately drew his attention like filings to a lodestone. As he examined it, he read the title engraved on it, "Tome of the Summoned." Fascinated, Alberto picked it up and began to open it. As he did, Meroe noticed what he was doing.   
  
"No! She shouted, panicked. That book is magically sealed! The curses on it could destroy you!"  
  
Too late.  
  
As he opened the book, a wave of chaotic energy flooded his mind. It struck with mind-shattering force, blasting away at his psyche like water from a fire hose. It screamed insanely at him, making reality itself seem like a disjointed puzzle.  
  
Alberto frowned for a moment, then shook his head for a moment. Other than that, he really did not even seem to notice.  
  
He looked back at Meroe. "Is this for sale?"  
  
Stunned, she nodded slowly. 


	5. The Way it Should Be

Chapter Five The Way it Should be  
  
Xavier Eden was a man with a smile that never seemed to leave his face.  
He was not a strongly built man, barely reaching five and a half feet. His brown hair was closely cropped in the standard style of a novice priest, and his simple brown robes, while well cut, where the clothing of a man who truly cared nothing at all for what he possessed.  
He seemed quite out of place among the merchant's caravan. While he dressed simply, it was clear from his clean appearance and healthy body that he was not a peasant, or a trader. His hands, while bearing more then a few calluses, were well manicured and perfectly clean. His skin had the slightly pale color of a man who spent most of his day inside, reading and devoting countless hours to prayer.  
Despite his soft appearance, the rowdy wagoneers had gone fairly easily on him. They had made more then a few coarse jokes at his expense, but Xavier, radiating a sense of peace that made even the roughest hired hand ashamed to taunt him, had borne it with complete equanimity.  
He did not hold any grudge against them. He was, he decided, a natural target. Feeling slightly ashamed of his presumption in assuming that these hard-working men of the road would accept him so easily, he resolved to redouble his efforts to make himself useful.  
As the wagons ground to a halt and the camp was pitched Xavier industriously hurled himself into being useful, hauling supplies, helping to feed and tie up the chocobos, and dozens of other necessary chores. When the work was finally done, he made his way to the chow line.  
Seeing the tired look on the face of the cook, he walked up to him. The chef, a fat, balding, rather bad-smelling man, raised his heavy wooden ladle and shook it threateningly at him. "Ye'll eat when everybody else does. Now get in line!"  
Xavier bowed slightly in apology. "I am sorry to interrupt you sir. You must be tired from the road. Would you allow me to handle serving the food? That way, you can get some rest."  
The chef absently scratched his greasy ear. "What's in it for you?" he asked suspiciously. "You don't get to eat any sooner!"  
Xavier bowed again. "Of course not. But you have been so busy working this whole time, and I have been slacking off. I really must do something to help."  
The chef hesitated, then, overcome by the humble young man's simple kindness, surrendered. "Alright. Slop's over there, just dump some out for each of them." With that, he ambled off. Still smiling, Xavier cheerfully gathered up the pots and carried them from the chef's makeshift kitchen to where the hungry merchants and guards waited, humming a hymn under his breath as he went. Happily, he began serving the food, making a point to thank or compliment each of the people who walked by for their work.  
As the line dwindled, he found himself face to face with a beautiful blonde haired woman. She was dressed in common travelling clothes, and wore a sword belted at her side, but she looked like nothing less then a true noble lady. She was, he remembered, one of the guards hired on for the trip.  
"Your name was. Rosa, was it not?"  
She nodded, a smile crossing her normally depressed face at the young man's friendly tone. "What happened to the usual chef?"  
"He was tired, so I took over. So tell me, where are your comrades?"  
"Oh," she replied, responding to Xavier's disarming friendliness, "Gilliam and Ellis are on sentry duty. As for Alberto, he locked himself in a wagon and refuses to come out. I don't think I want to know why."  
"I should probably bring him some food later." As he spoke, his ladle clanged against the insides of the empty stew pot. A chagrined smile crossing his face, he said "I seem to be out," an apologetic tone in his voice. "I believe there is some more in the wagons. If you don't mind, would you follow me?"  
They made their way to the make-shift kitchen in silence. Once there, Xavier quickly prepared a bowl for Rosa, then fixed one for himself as well. As Rosa took a sip of the still warm broth, Xavier took a seat, waiting for her response. After a moment, she looked back up and smiled. "It's good, thank you."  
"It was entirely the chef's work," Xavier demurred, never one to take the credit for himself. "So tell me, where are you from? Forgive my presumption, but you do not look like an ordinary mercenary."  
"Flatterer," she shot back, mentally scrambling to devise a response. "I'm just a mercenary, nothing more."  
But it is clear from your appearance that you are related to the nobility," the perceptive young man pressed.  
"I, uh, am from one of the minor families," she improvised nervously, her guts beginning to clench at the unexpected scrutiny. "My house was destroyed during the War, and I could either become a soldier or join a convent." That last part, at least, was true.  
"But in that case, why not join the Hokuten? Why become a simple fighter for hire?"  
"There were. complications," she said evasively. Hoping to change the subject, she quickly asked a question of her own. "So where are you bound? This does not exactly seem like a priest's normal entourage."  
"Your pardon milady," Xavier replied, gracefully allowing the topic to slide. "I am Xavier Eden, I am fear I am far from a priest. I am travelling to Gariland. From there, I will travel to Murond to undergo examination. If God is willing, I shall then be ordained a priest."  
"So where are you from?"  
"Lesalia. My father is a merchant of some success, although sadly I will not be carrying on the family business."  
"I see," she replied. "Last in line to inherit, eh?"  
"No, I simply waived my claim to my inheritance. The business will probably be passed to my younger sister."  
"You gave up your inheritance to become a priest?" she said incredulously.  
Xavier shrugged. "Wealth is not important to me. This way, I can perform God's work, and help to improve everyone's lot."  
Rosa, by now a jaded cynic, snorted. "Fat chance of that. You should have stayed home, at least that way you could have gotten something out of life."  
"My father said much the same thing," Xavier replied ruefully. "But with God, anything is possible!" he finished cheerfully.  
"If there's a God in Ivalice, it's the Devil himself," Rosa retorted bitterly, memories of Fort Zeakden and the Death Corps boiling to the forefront of her mind. "This world is a pile of mud, and if you try to pull people out of it you'll just get dirtier!"  
Xavier was shocked by the blasphemous statement, but kept his calm. "It is sad that you feel that way, but I pray."  
"Pray what?" Rosa spat angrily. "That God will 'open my heart?' Where is your God when there are real problems to be solved?! You're nothing but a spoiled noble brat who doesn't even realize just how well off he is!"  
"Have you ever seen them?" she demanded, rising to her feet as her anger took hold. "Have you ever seen the beggars on the side of the road, the peasant families that lost everything in some pointless war over territory? Have you ever looked at the corpse of a man you killed and known that all he wanted was enough food to stay alive?! Tell me, where is your God for the people who need him?"  
Xavier, caught completely off-guard by the infuriated woman's tirade, stammered to come up with a response. Disgusted, Rosa turned to walk away.  
"You are nothing but a naïve fool who has never seen the world the way it is."  
Xavier's reply stopped her in her tracks.  
"I have."  
As she turned back to regard him, he continued. "I have seen the beggars, and the peasants. I've seen a battlefield the morning after the Knights were through there, I have seen the bodies of those who had been slain, and heard the sobs of the ones who wished they had been!" His voice rising as the passion within his heart poured into his words, he went on. ""I have seen them, I have seen them all. I have seen an infant, lying in a ditch, left there by his mother without even a blanket to cover him!" Finally, his voice dropped almost to a whisper. "And I have never blamed her, because I knew that the kindest thing she could have done for him was hope he would have the good fortune to die!"  
Xavier drew in a deep breath. Seeming to regain his calm, he finished in an almost plaintive tone. "I have seen the world the way it is, Lady Rosa. And I know it is not the way it should be."  
With that, he bowed slightly, then turned to prepare a platter of food. Forcing a smile back onto his face, he spoke again. "If you will excuse me, I believe that your friend missed dinner." With that, he walked off towards the other wagons, leaving a stunned Rosa in his wake.  
  
As Gilliam returned to the wagons to sleep, his shift on the watch ended, a noise in the forest caught his attention. Instantly alert to the possible threat, his body instinctively fell into a relaxed, battle-ready poise. Slipping through the light forest that marked the outskirts of Sweegy with barely a broken twig to reveal his passage, he silently made his way towards the source of the sound.  
As he reached a small clearing, his fears vanished as he recognized Hanlon, the aged leader of the caravan's guards, as the source of the noise. Crouching behind a bush into a spying position, he watched in amazement as the squat, bald old man worked his way through a difficult practice routine.  
Hanlon, bearing no weapon save his own body, moved through the forms with a speed and precision that would have been astounding in a man half his age. Punching, kicking and dodging against enemies that existed only in his own mind, he moved through the complex moves with ease, staying in perfect balance the entire time. Gilliam had to bite his tongue to keep from gasping in awe at the man's skill. Finally, he completed that segment of his training regimen and began a new one.  
Walking to one of the trees that surrounded the clearing, Hanlon picked up a small wooden staff and three small stones. He then moved to the center of the clearing and stood there stock-still. The staff rested in his right hand, while the three stones were grasped in his left. Slowly, he closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath, seeking an absolute center. As he opened his eyes, he exploded into motion, tossing the three egg shaped stones into the air in a quick, one-two-three sequence. As the last one left his grasp, the staff flew into a flurry of motion. Then, to Gilliam's utter disbelief, Hanlon proceeded to bat each falling stone back into the air with the staff, one after another in rapid succession, keeping each one aloft. Man, wood and stone seemed to fuse into a blur of continuous motion, the sound of rock against staff melding into one constant fusillade.  
He kept this up for a good five minutes, not one stone ever touching the ground. Finally, he came to a stop, shifting the staff into his right hand and deftly catching one of the stones in his right, allowing the remaining pair to drop to a rest. In a seemingly casual move, Hanlon tossed the rock in his hand into a graceful arc. Gilliam, still entranced by the incredible display, failed to notice where the stone would land.  
Until it smashed squarely into his forehead.  
Calmly, Hanlon made his way to the stunned Gilliam, hands clasped behind his back. With an air of calm amusement, he looked the spy over, immediately recognizing the snooper as one of the mercenaries hired to reinforce his guards. Clinically, he looked the man over. A rather large bump would be forming, but there should be no lasting harm. Hanlon estimated he would be regaining his senses right about.  
"Ungah," Gilliam mumbled.  
"You were spying on me. I could not be sure you were not a bandit," Hanlon explained helpfully.  
"Ghaag," Gilliam responded. Hanlon choose to interpret that as meaning that he understood and held no hard feelings. Calmly, he sat and crossed his legs. It would probably be awhile longer before the young mercenary would be ready to talk, and he had caught Hanlon's interest. It had taken him a few minutes to detect Gilliam's presence, most people he would have spotted from fifty yards away, even while immersed in his training routine. He showed. promise.  
  
Finally free of the distraction of annoying fellow travelers and the jarring movement of the caravan, Alberto eagerly laid the tome on the table. With excited hands, he opened it. Once again, a blast of paradoxical mental energy blasted at his mind from the warding glyphs inscribed on the first page. As before, it had no effect on Alberto. Like a child with a new toy, he flipped to a random page and began to read.  
  
Hear ye, oh mortal who would seek to summon the terrible lord of  
the unholy death wind. Know thee that within lies the path to a  
being of immeasurable power, which could leave your body a dried  
and withered husk, your soul.  
  
Bored, Alberto flipped ahead. A few pages of warnings and precautions later (including the information as to how to safely perform the summoning) he found something more interesting.  
At the top of the left page was an intricately detailed drawing of a skull-faced creature dressed in dark robes. A wild burst of black light radiated from its bony left hand, and its skeletal face was thrown back in berserk, blood-thirsty laughter.  
In short, it looked like Alberto's kind of person. He began to read once more.  
  
Before ye even dare to conceive of summoning this, the most  
feared spawn of hell and death itself, you must spend months in  
preparation. First, for protection, you must.  
  
Once again, Alberto yawned and skipped ahead. Finally, he got to the actual spell. He easily memorized the complicated words and runes necessary for it for the ritual. Mentally, he reviewed the list of ingredients. He would need a knife.  
  
Trying to regain his peace of mind after the confrontation with Rosa, Xavier quietly sung a favorite hymn of his as he made his way to the wagon that Alberto had sealed himself in, the tray of food supported carefully with both hands. As he approached the wagon, he noted an odd noise from within.  
  
Alberto, knife held in his left hand, stood within a quickly drawn pentagram. Four balls of flame, products of his magic, stood at each pole, floating three feet off the ground. The preparations done, he began to chant in a bizarre, clicking language. As he did, his free hand wove arcane patterns in the air, forming a precise rune before each ball of flame. As he did, each one flickered slightly, then turned pitch black. As they did, he thrust the knife into each one in turn. An eerie black light began to enfold the blade as he did. Finally, he halted his spin and began to raise the chant to a crescendo. As he did, he held out his right palm. Without a moment's hesitation, he slashed the blade across his palm.  
As the blood fell from his hand, it too took on the same strange, somehow shining dark hue of the flames. Alberto spun counter clockwise, an ululating sound coming from deep within his throat as he did. As the blood fell to the ground, the darkness began to creep into the pentagram, until Alberto was surrounded by the flaring black light. As the dark fire blazed into being around him the orbs began to spin about his wildly, and with that, Alberto felt something entering his mind!  
No words were exchanged, but an overwhelmingly powerful presence flooded the pathways of his psyche. A maniacal laughter began to ring through his ears, and a black form took shape before his eyes. The laughter increased, driving him to his knees in agony, and for perhaps the first time in his insane life, Alberto realized he had gone too far. This power, whatever it was, was beyond him, beyond even his comprehension!  
"I am Lich," whispered a terrible voice that trembled with dark power, igniting a volcano of pain behind his eyes. "Did you, a mortal, truly presume to summon me thus, without even the advantage of the laughably weak wardings your kind employees?"  
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Alberto gathered his will power, trying to drive back the overwhelming force, to reclaim control of his mind. Lich countered with a psychic blast akin to that of a mental hurricane, blasting aside his attempted defense.  
"You are doomed mortal! I will devour you from within, and then see what pleasures this world can offer me within your flesh! You are mine!"  
That got to Alberto. Reaching deep for the last of his strength, Alberto forced himself back to his feet. Unclenching his jaw (which had been on the verge of biting off his own tongue) he slowly spoke.  
"Who.are.you.calling.a.MORTAL?!"  
With that, Alberto hurled every ounce of willpower he had to left at the mental juggernaut that was Lich. As he did, he flung his hand out, grabbing one off the balls of flame that made the contact possible. Gritting his teeth against the scorching of his flesh, he sent a blast of freezing energy into it, blasting the delicate balance of the spell apart and severing the connection between himself and Lich. He felt Lich screech inside his skull, ripping away at his (relative) sanity. And finally, the demon was gone completely.  
  
After hearing the screaming inside, Xavier quickly put down the food tray and ran towards the source, hoping he was in time to save whoever or whatever had made that horrific noise. Just as he reached the door, it was flung open, barely missing Xavier's face. A wild eyed man, his right hand bleeding staggered out.  
"A.Are you alright?" Xavier asked. "Let me see that wound, what happ."  
Xavier was cut off as Alberto seized him by the collar of his robes in a grip with the feral strength of a madman. An insane light in his eye, he screamed a question into his face.  
"Can you not see it?!"  
"See what?" Xavier squeaked, his air beginning to be cut off.  
"The triangle! The glorious four-sided triangle!"  
"I, ah, no."  
With that, Alberto released him and ran into the forest, babbling wildly to himself. Xavier watched him until he vanished from sight, then looked into the wagon. The interior was wrecked, every bit of furniture blasted into scrap. He thought to go after the strange man, or at least to examine the wagon more closely, but in the end he decided that for once he truly did not want to know.  
  
After some time, Gilliam slowly began to return to consciousness. The first thing he was aware of was a deep, dull ache. To his confused mind, the ache seemed to be everywhere, radiating through him in slow, steady waves. As his mind began to function again bit by bit, he realized that the waves were coming from one particular point. Concentrating, he identified that spot as his head. That was it. His head hurt. Slowly, he began to rise, reaching upwards to feel the source of the injury.  
That turned out to be a mistake.  
As he moved the dull pulses instantly transformed themselves into a spike of agony driven through his skull. He fell back, moaning. Hanlon, immediately noticing his activity, rose to his feet and crouched down beside him.  
"Feeling a bit better, eh?" he said, much too cheerfully.  
"No," Gilliam managed to reply sullenly.  
Hanlon laughed and thumped Gilliam on the back. "Young man like yourself shouldn't even blink at a hit like that." Grabbing him under the armpit, Hanlon hauled Gilliam to his feet. "Come on, up and awake!"  
Gilliam stumbled forward before he managed to catch himself on a nearby tree. Glaring at the old man, he started to say something vulgar, then remember the display this man had put on earlier. Wisely, he remained quiet.  
Seemingly oblivious to Gilliam's anger, Hanlon continued. "See, knew you had it in you! You were Gilliam, right?"  
Gilliam nodded slowly (and immediately wished he hadn't!) tried to make sense of this odd warrior. The old man showed no sign of the skill and discipline he had shown earlier. Cautiously, he spoke.  
"I'm sorry if I startled you earlier. I heard a noise and I thought it might be an intruder."  
Hanlon waved the apology off casually. "No, no, just doing your job. Sorry to whack you like that, I didn't know you were one of ours. There are goblins around these parts you know."  
Gilliam forced a smile. "I doubt any of them would pose a real threat to you, sir."  
A serious look crossed Hanlon's face for a moment. "Never underestimate a goblin lad. Meanest things on earth, especially if you intrude on their lands. They say that it was goblins that taught us humans how to fight unarmed, back before we learned to forge metal."  
"You mean like the fighting style you were practicing earlier?" Gilliam asked, his curiosity drawing his attention away from the lump on his head. Gilliam thought back to his own battle with a group of goblins. It was different, but there was a similarity between the way the savage creatures had fought and the refined moves this martial artist had displayed.  
"Perceptive lad," Hanlon congratulated. "So they say, so they say. Course, most men nowadays would never admit it, but humans are better at stealing things from others then coming up with them themselves."  
"That was amazing!" Gilliam said excitedly. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"  
"It was a long time ago lad, a long time ago." For a moment, Hanlon grew pensive, and stared off into space at some long ago memory only he could see. He shook his head slightly, the moment passed. "But that's not important. So tell me, think you are up to heading to your pallet?"  
"Yes, but." Gilliam stopped himself, trying to come up with a good response. He wanted to ask the old man if he would teach him, but.  
"Why are you here?" he blurted out.  
"Bit late for metaphysical questions lad."  
"I mean, why with this caravan? You are obviously a great warrior, why work guarding merchants through a forest? With skills like yours, you could easily find better work!"  
Hanlon's front of good humor seemed to vanish under Gilliam's questioning. A serious look on his face, he paused for a moment, then responded.  
"I've been around awhile lad. I fought in the war when I was no older then you, watched my comrades die around me. I've killed people with my bare hands, when their only crime was being born on the wrong side. I've had enough of it. This caravan is as good a way as any to pass what time I have left. That's about all the work I need now."  
As he finished, a deep silence seemed to surround him. Gilliam started to reply, but Hanlon cut him off, the cheery tone back in his voice.  
"But I'm sure you don't care about all that. Young folks never care much for anything that happened before they were on the scene. What do you really want?"  
He paced forward, examining Gilliam's face. He circled around him, seeming to weigh Gilliam's motives on some inner scale. Finally, he took a step back and straightened.  
"That's it! You want me to teach you, don't you? Don't deny it kid, I recognize the look. Believe me, I had the same one when I was you age." He snorted. "Amazed I didn't get myself killed then and there as a nuisance. Well, let's see if you're worth the effort. Draw your sword!"  
Gilliam hesitated for a moment, then complied, unsheathing his broadsword and holding it in a two handed grasp. Hanlon nodded and motioned him on.  
"Now, come at me."  
Gilliam stood stock-still, frozen. Attacking an unarmed man, it went against his every instinct. Hanlon, annoyed at his inaction, barked an order out. "Attack!"  
That command, spoken in a tone that Gilliam's military training had left him conditioned to obey instantly, snapped him out of his paralysis. He charged, sword in front of him as if he meant to skewer the old man. Hanlon sighed inwardly at the disappointingly predictable attack. As he moved to send Gilliam sprawling to the ground, Gilliam managed to surprise him.  
As he neared Hanlon, Gilliam faked a stumble. As he did, he scooped a stone up off the ground and hurled it forward while clutching his sword in the other. As Hanlon instantly dodged the unexpected missile, Gilliam threw himself into a roll. He landed on his feet and sprang forward like a snake, reversing his sword to smash the hilt into his target.  
Hanlon's foot caught him directly in the solar plexus as he did. Clutching his gut, Gilliam collapsed to his knees, gasping for air.  
Hanlon watch impassively as the young mercenary fell (again) to the ground. That attack had been a good one, had come close to actually catching him off-guard. He stroked his chin, then nodded as he reached a decision. He would take this one on as a pupil. After all, it was high time he started training a successor. He looked to the heap Gilliam had fallen into.  
Well, he corrected, tomorrow he would start training his successor.  
  
As every member of the caravan who was not assigned to the night watch collapsed into their bed rolls, a pair of crimson eyes marked the scene carefully from outskirts of the camp. Concealed in the shadow of the trees, the watcher counted the strength of the caravan, mentally forming a map its layout. As the spy finished its examination, he turned and melted back into the shadows like a hunting cat. The others would be waiting.  
  
The next day passed quickly, the caravan rapidly passing through the familiar terrain. The leaders pushed the chocobos hard, desperate to be out of the reputedly bandit filled forest as soon as possible. They kept the pace up the entire day, driving the chocobos and their handlers to the brink of exhaustion. Finally, as dusk fell, they were forced to come to a halt. The handlers quickly removed the exhausted birds' harnesses and allowed them their much needed rest. Their clawed feet were examined especially closely; for fear that the brutal pace might leave some of them lame.  
The entire camp buzzed with nervous anxiety, with every man in the caravan completely alert. The guards fingered their weapons uneasily, fearing an attack from the thick surrounding forest at anytime. The sentries for the night quickly made their way out to their posts, not even taking the time to eat. Off to the edge of the encampment, Lanal spoke to one of them quietly, under the pretence of giving him a loaf of bread.  
"The other teams are in place?" he asked quietly.  
The guard, the leader of the contingent of brigands Lanal had brought with him, nodded.  
"Each guard post has at least one of our men with them. The rest are in position with the main caravan. When Drake attacks, they won't see a thing coming."  
"Good. I'll join my own."  
Abruptly, Lanal fell silent as he noticed his own group of sentries coming. As they came by, he spoke up again, just loudly to make sure they would hear him.  
"Good luck, and do be careful." With that, he turned towards Gilliam and Alberto. "Noble guardians, are you ready for our sojourn?"  
Gilliam nodded, still surprised by the offer to accompany them on their patrol. "Are you sure you want to come with us? You could stay here." Lanal waved away the offer. "I doubt I could sleep anyway. And the more eyes the better, eh? Besides, where would I be safer then besides two excellent warriors such as yourself?"  
Gilliam, his cheeks growing red at the effusive praise from the admiring Lanal, shrugged and hefted his pack. "Have it your way. Are you ready?"  
Lanal stretched and nodded.  
  
As they made their way through the dark forest, Lanal fell mercifully silent. Gilliam, adapting instantly to the now familiar environment of sentry duty, looked about constantly for any sign of trouble. Lanal stood directly behind him, with Alberto bringing up the rear. As they marched, Lanal mentally debated how to deal with two of them.  
He needed to do so quickly to met with the others and report on the caravan's defenses. But he had to pick his moment carefully. If his strike was not perfect, these two would be not be caught off-guard, especially with that damned wizard trailing behind him. Lanal had quickly realized that these two were among the caravan's most dangerous defenders (which was why he selected this group for himself), not simple mercenaries. He had to be sure.  
  
His mind still reeling, from his encounter with Lich, Alberto struggled to remain centered on the present moment. Trying to prevent his mind from wandering out of focus (he had not been able to concentrate since the attempted summoning) he locked his attention on Lanal's back. It was surprising that the man had volunteered to come with them. The man smiled almost constantly, seeming to exude a sense of eager friendliness that reminded Alberto of an excitable little puppy dog.  
Alberto hated puppy dogs.  
  
Using his mystic abilities to draw the pitch black shadows of the forest night around him in a concealing shroud, Chell observed the trio carefully. Judging from way they moved, the oracle immediately realized Lanal's problem. With that man (whom Chell instantly identified as a wizard of some sort) behind him, watching him like a hawk, there was no way the assassin could make his move. A plan coalescing in the experienced tactician's mind, he pulled the shadows closer and fell deeper still into the core of his being, reaching out to the subtle magic that made him so very deadly on these nights. Within the seclusion of his mind, a humming noise began to sound.  
  
Alberto glanced about warily, his alert senses catching some sort of disturbance. He scanned the area, trying to find the source of the sensation. Nothing appeared. Finally, he gave up, convincing himself that it was only a flashback to the night before. But what was that sound?  
  
Lanal. The voice, a whisper as cold as a serpent and as strong as a garrote, whistled through his mind as Chell made contact with him. Forcing himself not to start at the truly unwelcome intrusion into his thoughts, Lanal mentally formed a reply. Chell, (who else would be contacting him thus?) are you ready? I need a distraction. I will deal with the wizard, the reply came. See to the other one. With that, the oracle's presence vanished from Lanal's mind. "As talkative as he is in person," Lanal thought dryly. Forcing himself to relax, he mentally planned his next move. One quick spring forward should be all that he needed.  
  
As he broke the telepathic link he had forged with Lanal, Chell refocused his attention on the sorcerer. Sorting through his arsenal, he mentally selected his method of attack. Falling back into the magic once again, he began to shape another spell. As he completed it, he opened a new connection and sent the scrambling burst of mental energy hurtling into Alberto's mind.  
  
Alberto stopped in his tracks as the waves of psychic energy washed over his mind. An involuntary gasp escaping his lips, he staggered back under the assault. A strange haze seemed to form in the corridors of his mind, confusing baffling him. His concentration began to fade.  
  
As he heard Alberto's gasp, Lanal made his move. Whipping a dagger from its concealed sheath, he darted forward, stabbing upwards towards Gilliam's ribs. Luck, pure, blind luck, saved him. As he turned to see what had caused Alberto's gasp, a tree root caught his foot. He staggered slightly, but quickly regained his balance. As he did, he just barely dodged the angle of Lanal's attack, receiving the strike (which would have taken him in the lungs) as a deep gash along his side. Instinctively, he lashed out, grabbing the arm that held the dagger and dragging them both down. As they hit the dirt, they grappled desperately, Lanal trying to bring his dagger into play, Gilliam struggling wildly to stop him.  
  
Quite a few things had been launching attacks on Alberto's mind lately. All things considered, he was growing sick of it. Shaping his will into a blazing spark of light in his mind, he fought back against Chell's confusion spell, burning the mental fog away like the morning dew. As he regained his equilibrium, he traced the psychic connection back to its source and pinpointed his attacker. Transferring the focus of his concentration from his mind to his staff, Alberto channeled his anger into the form of a raw, elemental reaction. Lightning lit the night, the searing arcs of energy blasting towards Chell's vulnerable form. Chell, his cover lost, hurled himself to the side, just barely taking refuge behind one of the thick trees. It snapped under the magical assault, and with a loud crack began to fall towards him. Chell throw himself into another roll, this time towards Alberto, hoping to reach him unnoticed in distraction. Two yards away, he regained his feet and lifted his bo to strike. Alberto looked towards him, a mixture of panic and anger on his face. He pointed his staff towards Chell, another lightning blast already crackling across it and begging for discharge. Alberto granted it that release, and the magical lightning bolt, as deadly as anything the sky had ever created, lanced out. Acting with the combined speed of decades of finely honed reflexes and pure, unadulterated terror, Chell raised a defensive spell about him, a blue-green aura flaring into being around him. He closed his eyes, hoping that it would stand against the attack. The lightning struck Chell like a battering ram striking a castle gate. The barrier spell let out an unearthly shriek as it was pushed to, and beyond, its limits. The impact sent Chell flying dozens of feet, finally coming to halt as he slammed against a tree. Hard. The protective shell had saved him. It had spared him the worst of the punishment, ablating just enough of the destructive energy to prevent Chell from being seared alive on the spot. He sniffed, inhaling the disturbingly savory aroma of his own roasted flesh. Only the years of strict, uncompromising discipline kept him from screaming in agony, or from simply lying down and dying. As he lay there, semiconscious, he heard footsteps crunching through the woods towards him as if from a distance. He forced his half-blinded eyes open to see Alberto standing over him, bringing that staff to bear once more. "Any last words?" he inquired. Chell, drawing new strength from the prospect of revenge, allowed himself to slump, seemingly defeated. As Alberto shrugged, Chell leapt up like the wounded predator that he was. His hands locked like manacles around Alberto's wrists. Snarling, he opened himself up to his magic once again, spitting out the words as he cast this, his most beloved spell. A strange feeling swept through Alberto as he did. He started to attempt a counter, but all thought was washed away as he felt the energy draining out of his body and into his enemy! As if the drain plug had been pulled from a water basin, the strength flowed out of him faster and faster. He fell to his knees, kept supported by Chell's grasp on his wrists. A demonic smile twisting his normally emotionless face, Chell trembled with ecstasy as the stolen energy poured into his body, healing his injuries and filling him with new strength. And as Chell stood taller in his unholy joy, Alberto shuddered like an opium addict who had been a week without a fix. The world seemed to grow cold to Alberto, and dark. So dark.  
  
Dukane stiffened slightly as he heard the bird call echo out from the forest. The warbling sound, the call of a swamp bird, instantly informed Lanal's lieutenant that his comrades were on their way. Quickly, he went to work, passing the word to the half dozen bandits under his command via prearranged hand signals. Pulling his helmet over his militarily short blond hair, he moved into position, checking his weapons one last time. The bandits, skilled assassins all, followed suit, fanning out throughout the camp to attack the other guards from the most unexpected angle possible.  
Dukane selected a spot near the center of the caravan. As he scanned the area, his alert eyes picked out the aged leader of the guards, far from the perimeter where the bulk of his men were stationed. Not willing to let this opportunity pass, he pulled the crossbow from off of his back and drew careful aim on Hanlon. As he centered the bolt on the small of the old fighting monk's back, he pulled the trigger.  
The shaft flew perfectly. Hanlon, his instincts suddenly screaming that he was in danger, flinched as the projectile slammed into the small of his back, straight for his heart.  
Too late.  
  
Xavier, busy cleaning the food pots for the next day, heard Hanlon's sharp gasp as he was struck down. Dropping them, he ran towards the source of the sound, inhaling sharply as he saw the old man fall to the ground. Not sparing a moment to look for the attacker, or to worry about his own safety, Xavier ran to him and fell to his knees beside the badly wounded man. Grimacing as he saw the deadly wound, he clasped his hands before himself in prayer as he recited the words to the healing spell, though the minor spell seemed a poor tool against this lethal injury. Pushing his doubts aside, he fell deeper into his prayer, pulling the healing energy to him, begging his God for the strength to save this man. Slowly, Xavier's hands began to glow.  
Dukane, still concealed, watched in amusement. He had seen many injuries in his day, and he knew when a man was beyond a healer's power. Returning the crossbow to its harness, he drew two matched short swords, and began to stalk towards the oblivious young man.  
  
Desperately, Xavier prayed on, reaching into the deeps of his soul for strength, imploring Holy Ajora to grant him the power to save this man. The wound, a shot that had nicked the spine and lodged itself in Hanlon's heart, absorbed every ounce of energy he hurled at it without seeming to improve in the slightest. Totally absorbed in the struggle for the dying warrior's life, he did not notice Dukane until the bandit stood over him and cleared his throat. The assassin grinned wickedly as he lifted his blades for the strike. Noticing Xavier's robes, he taunted the novice priest.  
"Where is your God now?"  
Seeing his doom in the man's face, and certain that he was about to die, Xavier began to tremble. Calling on his faith to strengthen him, he forced himself to be calm, to look the bandit square in the eyes. Not doubting in the slightest that he was about to die, Xavier bowed his head over Hanlon's still form once more. With an absolute conviction borne of the sincere faith that blazed within his heart, he closed his eyes and began to pray once more. Whatever happened to him, he would not abandon this man!  
  
Dukane tensed his legs, then dashed forward, swords thrusting like a serpent's fangs. An instant before they drove into Xavier's body, a steel sword intercepted them, forcing them high. Dukane looked down the length of the blocking sword to see tall women, dressed in traveler's clothing, standing there, an angry glare in her eyes. Breaking the clench, the blond swordswomen rushed forward. Forcing his short swords out to the side, she rammed into him, elbow extended. He fell back, snapping his twin blades ahead in a double thrust. Her sword darted out to parry the first blade, then snapped to the side to knock the other sword out wide. Dukane feinted another straight forward attack, then somersaulted backwards, returning to his feet several feet away. Brandishing his swords in a guard position, he began to circle, trying to take this new adversaries measure.  
Rosa eyed him carefully. Not daring to let him out of her sight even for a moment, she called to the still praying Xavier.  
"Get out of here, there's nothing you can do."  
Xavier continued his prayers without a pause, not seeming to hear a word she said.  
Rosa tried to call out to him again, then cursed and turned her full attention back to the assassin. Finally recognizing the man, she demanded an explanation.  
"What the hell are you doing?"  
Dukane smirked. "Just clearing the way for the rest. Be glad you are going to die here, its better then what they would do to you if you were taken alive." With that, he went back on the attack with breathtaking agility, crossing the space between them in an instant. Both swords working in perfect unison, he whirled and stabbed at Rosa, attacking from every angle. Rosa, realizing that this man was a true master swordsman, could barely keep up. Her single blade moving so quickly that it seemed a blur, she used every trick in her arsenal to maintain her defense. Finally, an attack slipped through, cutting low to slash across her knees. Seeing her chance, Rosa made a desperate bid.  
Faking a stumble, she fell to the ground, one hand falling away from her sword. As Dukane darted forward to finish her, she ripped off her cloak, hurling it at his blades. His right sword cut through the rough material, entangling it in the cloth. Returning to a two-handed grasp, Rosa stabbed straight up. Dukane caught it with his free blade, deflecting it away from his body and holding it across his chest.  
Just as Rosa had expected him to.  
Placing her left foot under her for balance, Rosa stood, her right leg kicking straight up into the Dukane's groin. The blow, which had begun at ground level, sent waves of agony coursing through his body.  
In an act of endurance that was a true testament to his years of self- discipline, Dukane did not topple. Forcing his wiry muscles to move, he stabbed forward with the entangled blade, directly into Rosa's face.  
Rosa let her left leg fall out from under her, dropping her onto all fours. As her elevated right leg fell, she swept out with it, knocking Dukane to the dirt. Springing back to her feet, she nearly stumbled as she realized that she had sprained her ankle in the maneuver. Forcing her self to stay on her feet, she pointed her sword downwards and leapt forward, stabbing down at the prone man.  
  
As he saw the point of Rosa's sword descending towards, Dukane realized that he trapped, that there was no way he could dodge. Closing his eyes, he clenched his right hand, focusing all of his thoughts on the crystalline ring there. As he did, a soft red aura began to glow around it. It spread, covering his entire body with its ruby light. Time began to slow to Dukane, with Rosa's jumping attack seeming to move like she was submerged in molasses. He pencil rolled, easily escaping an instant before Rosa's sword thrust into the dirt where his chest had been. As he rose to his feet, he patted the ring gratefully. The magical trinket had saved a much younger member of the Nanten soldier more times then he could count. Mentally, he chalked up one more to the tally. Grinning like a sand panther spotting a cripple chocobo, he charged.  
  
He was fast, impossibly fast. As the assassin charged her, Rosa, held her sword ready, prepared to defend against any move he made. Or so she thought. An instant before he would have impaled himself on her sword, Dukane circled to the left, slipping past her guard with terrifying speed. He could have easily ripped her open with his blades at that point, but he wanted to draw this out, to enjoy his revenge as much as possible. He kicked out, catching her in her sprained leg, sending her stumbling to the ground. As she tried to regain her feet, he kicked her in the face, sending her sprawling again. Rosa, her nose bleeding and her vision doubled, forced her head back up, expecting to see a sword thrusting in to finish her. Instead, Dukane was standing calmly, blades at his sides.  
"One more chance," he said mockingly. "Up!"  
Barely able to see straight, her left leg screaming for her not to place her weight on it, Rosa struggled painfully to rise. Despairing, she wondered how she would get out of this one.  
  
Ellis, her watch over, wandered beyond the edge of the camp. A restless mode falling over her traveler's spirit, she slipped through the shadow's, admiring the simple beauty of the moonlit night. Spotting a good tree, she found a set of handholds and scrambled up it, finding a perch that lifted her above the canopy. She looked up at the full moon, a sense of calm coming over her. Knowing that restful moments such as this rarely entered her life, she leaned back against the body of the tree, enjoying the scene with all of her senses.  
That was when she heard the noises.  
Something, a lot of somethings, was charging through the forest. Freezing, she looked down at the trail, waiting. Within a few moments, a host of chocobos appeared, hurtling towards the unprepared camp. Ellis had to bite her tongue to keep from gasping as she saw the number of them.  
There were too many of them, she realized instantly. There was no way the caravan's meager guard could fight them off. Not daring to wonder how they had gotten past the patrols unnoticed, her mind raced, trying to find a way to warn the others, to come up with some sort of defense.  
There was nothing she could do, she realized. The caravan was doomed, and so was everyone with it. The knowledge hit her like a lightning bolt. And for the first time since she was a child, a tear fell from her eyes. Denying the truth, she dropped down from the tree and ran towards the camp, towards the people who had come to matter so much to her. "Not again," she whispered grimly to herself. "Not again." 


	6. She Knew

Chapter Six  
  
She Knew  
  
As he grappled with Gilliam on the hard-packed ground, Lanal quickly realized that he was fighting a losing battle against his stronger opponent. He felt his dagger arm being pushed back inch by inch, within seconds Gilliam would be able to retaliate. Changing tactics, Lanal abruptly stopped trying to thrust his dagger into Gilliam's throat. As he did, he set the front ends of his feet against the ground. As Gilliam's arms shot forward, Lanal dropped the dagger and planted his hands palm down against the dirt. Kicking forward with his feet, he lifted his body into a handstand. Falling forward, he came to his feet in a crouch, already spinning around to face his adversary.  
  
Caught off-guard by the acrobatic move, Gilliam rolled over, landing face-down on his stomach. Trying to pull his feet under him, he began to stand. Lanal's foot smashed square into his face, slamming him back to the ground. He rolled to the right, tasting blood and dirt in his mouth. Drawing another dagger, Lanal wasted no time in following upon the attack.  
  
Lanal sprang at Gilliam like a snake on a rat, dagger hand descending in a downward stab. The unarmed Gilliam, terror overriding caution, flung his right hand onto the point of the dagger in a desperate attempt to block it, impaling his palm on the needle-sharp point. Ripping it out, Lanal slashed it into Gilliam's right side. With a scream that was more pain-filled screech than battle-cry, Gilliam dragged his feet back under him and clenched his left hand into a fist. Still screaming, he stood and slammed the padded heel of his hand into the bottom of Lanal's jaw. As his teeth slammed together with an audible clank, the assassin's head slammed back. Whipping his hand back down, Gilliam seized the wrist of Lanal's dagger arm, squeezing his fingers cruelly into the nerve center. Forced to drop the dagger, Lanal broke away and backpedaled. Staggering back, Gilliam snatched the dagger with his unwounded hand   
  
Spitting a tooth out, Gilliam awkwardly grasped the dripping blade in his left hand. Struggling to stop his legs from trembling, he fell into a fighting crouch. Lifting his bleeding right hand before him, he forced the appendage to flex in a beckoning gesture.  
  
"Come on," he gasped.  
  
***  
  
  
  
Blackness crackled across Chell's hands, and blackness swam across Alberto's eyes as the life-draining spell worked its unholy magic. As his parasitical enemy drew the very life force out of his body, the world seemed to simply fall away to Alberto. Chell's face, the dark forest, even his own body seemed to vanish. What had started as a numbness in his arms spread to the rest of his body, blocking out all sensation. The only thought his mind could produce was the certain knowledge that he was going to die.  
  
It was then, in that state of absolute detachment, that the voice came to him once more. As dry as bones and as terrible as damnation, its whisper seemed as loud as a thunderstorm. It was Lich.  
  
-You are going to die, foolish mortal. You will die, and you will come to me, and join me forever.-  
  
Alberto tried to deny the hissing voice, tried to form a response from his suddenly torpid brain. It was no use. Even if he did reply, what difference would it make? The demon was right, he was going to die.  
  
-But I can save you, little human. Open yourself to me, give your body over to me, let my power fill your soul and you will crush this one!-  
  
Alberto felt himself drawn to the offer, felt himself giving in, letting Lich enter him. Why not? He was going to die either way, at least this way he would have revenge. And the power… Amid the gray nothingness that swirled through his mind, the power concealed within that voice blazed like dark beacon, a darkness that somehow seemed to shine. It would be so easy…  
  
Just as he was about to give in, just as he was truly lost, an image flashed through his mind. He saw himself as a puppet, an automaton, a mere golem that housed Lich's spirit. In one brief flash of insight, Alberto saw into Lich's mind, saw what would become of him.  
  
He would remain here, trapped forever in this grey void, languishing in a mental prison until Lich was either cast out or grew bored with this world. Nothingness, that was what Lich offered him. No more battles, no more insane drive to power. He would never again feel lightning crackling between his fingers, never again smell the bitter tang of ozone in the air, never again feel the blazing heat of a fireball forming in his palm.  
  
He would never wield magic again.  
  
That last thought, more then anything else, terrified Alberto It jolted him out of his torpor and back to full consciousness. He must not give in!  
  
Lich's spirit had already begun to seep into his soul, infecting his weakening aura with its malign energies. Alberto fought back, his mind locking with Lich's across the veil that separated them, forcing the demon back. Lich struggled against him, the spirit's dark will striving to engulf the mortal's mind. But for all its power, Lich languished in another plane entirely, and this was Alberto's body, Alberto's place. Slowly, the demon gave ground.   
  
Alberto refocused his will, directing all of his mental strength at the psychic bond that linked them together; the tie had inadvertently forged in his reckless attempt at summoning the nightmarish beast. Slowly, he wrapped his mind around it like a vise, pinching it closed, snapping shut the gate through which Lich had gained access. Cursing him, Lich was forced to retreat to its shadowy home or have its mind cut off and destroyed.  
  
The struggle for his mind won, Alberto turned his thoughts to physical survival. Chell still held him in his vampiric grasp. Life energy continued to race out of his body. He could not last much longer. He needed something to break the link, something to replenish his drained body and heal…  
  
Heal. That was it. Calling on the last bit of his mental and magical strength, Alberto reached out to a power he rarely drew on, a spell he normally disdained.  
  
At the academy of Igros, Alberto had been selected for training as a healer, a battlefield medic. While expecting Alberto to work to restore rather then destroy people's bodies was not among the Hokuten trainers' wiser decisions (it came close to the stupidity of letting Alberto in to begin with), it had given Alberto a chance to learn real magic. Along with that magic, that glorious destructive power, Alberto had been forced (much to his distaste) to learn basic healing spells. While he had little interest in a magic that could not be used to charbroil the flesh from random people, Alberto had indeed learned it, and promptly regulated it to the back of his mind. And it was to that secluded part of his psyche that Alberto went, reaching for an energy that was almost anathema to the destructive-minded wizard.  
  
A cool, clean energy began to swell within him, an almost electric charge that sent shivers of pleasure through every fiber of his being. It swept through him, refreshing and recharging his ravaged body like water poured on parched earth.  
  
Then it reached the spot where Chell's hands gripped his wrists. Drawn to the draining effect, the healing energy coursed out of Alberto's body and into Chell's insatiable grasp. The suction of the spell seized hold of the healing spell, dragging more energy out of whatever dimension it originated. More and more energy flooded in and out of Alberto's body as Chell's magic inadvertently wrapped the simple healing spell far beyond its limits. As the energy flow increased, Alberto's body began to glow with an eldritch light. Under that pressure, under that sheer, constantly increasing volume of energy, something had to give.  
  
Chell's spell went first.  
  
The lifedrain spell, for all of its lethal efficiency, was a fragile thing. It was meant to transfer small, manageable amounts of life energy from one body to another. It could only bear so much before shattering. Trying to absorb the flood of pure, unadulterated life energy that Alberto was hurling at it was like trying to fill a tea cup with a fire hose.  
  
With a crackle of wild energy, the spell snapped. Chell fell back screaming, his hands charred black by the backlash. He stumbled, falling unceremoniously on his rump. From this reclining position, he had a clear view of what was happening to Alberto.  
  
By now, the influx of life energy had formed a nimbus of light around Alberto's body. The sheer force of the energy lifted him upward, levitating him nearly two feet off the ground. He threw back his head and laughed wildly in sheer exultation as he felt every ounce of strength he has lost replace. More then replaced! Alberto had never felt so much power; never (except perhaps for that time he had tried to summon Lich) even come close to the amount of energy released by the chance interaction of the two spells. He felt invincible, as if his skin was as tough as a dragon's hide and his arms had the strength of a giant, as if he could spread a pair of wings and soar into the night sky!  
  
He trembled, this time in excitement rather then pain. He spun around wildly, then slowed as his eyes fixed on Chell. He grinned. Time to test those feelings…  
  
***  
  
Every fiber of his being focused on the battle to save Hanlon's life, Xavier did not even notice Rosa's furious duel with the bandit assassin. Healing grace poured through his hands and into the wound the old fighting monks chest in a steady, pulsing rhythm. The energy seemed to sing to Xavier, a vibrant, humming song as wild and beautiful as life itself.   
  
But it still was not enough to repair Hanlon's bolt pierced heart. Xavier could feel Hanlon's life slipping away despite all his efforts, he could feel the man's spirit about to fall away from the aged body.  
  
Gritting his teeth, Xavier forced his own life energy into the spell, sacrificing his own essence in a desperate attempt to empower the spell beyond his mortal limits. Pouring his very soul in the effort, Xavier begged St Ajora, begged God Himself, for the grace to save Hanlon. As the strength left his body, Xavier began to grow dizzy and light-headed.  
  
As Xavier hovered on the verge of unconsciousness, he felt a delicate pair of hands place themselves atop his own. A soft, silvery light filled his vision, banishing the darkness behind his eyelids. A deep sense of peace swept over him, and in that moment he felt Hanlon's wounds begin to close.  
  
The heart was the first thing to be affected, its ripped chambers drawn together into a whole organ. The aorta, severed by the deadly projectile, reattached itself, and blood began to flow through it once more as the organ began to pump. As the flesh miraculously regenerated, the crossbow bolt was forced out, to fall harmlessly to the ground. The wound closed behind it, leaving not even a scratch behind.  
  
Xavier tilted his head back, eyes raised heavenwards, as the glow faded from his hands.  
  
"Praise God," he whispered reverently.  
  
***  
  
  
  
Realizing that he had played with his opponent enough, Dukane decided to finish the job. There were other targets that needed to be killed this night, and he had delayed his business too long already. As Rosa painfully pulled herself back to her feet, Dukane sprang forward, blades ready. The right-hand short sword thrust in high for her throat, while the other snaked in low towards her belly. As he came into striking distance, he swept his foot in a kick aimed at her injured knee. Rosa twisted to defend herself, but he was so fast…  
  
A burst of light flared behind Rosa, so bright that it seemed a star had fallen to earth. Dukane was far too experienced to allow himself to be distracted by the unexpected display, but something else followed it. A wave of sensation swept over him, a cool, tranquil energy that made Dukane shudder inexplicably. A nameless dread shot through him as it did, and for one brief moment the red aura that surrounded him flickered and died.  
  
It returned instantly as whatever power had swept over Dukane passed him by, but in that instant, everything changed. As the haste magic flickered, Dukane stumbled, his movements out of synch and off-balance. He immediately began to recover, but in that split-second his defenses were gone.  
  
Rosa was quick to seize the opportunity.  
  
Sword held in both hands, Rosa slashed up at a diagonal angle. Cutting through empty air where a blocking sword should have been in position, the razor-sharp blade instead sliced into Dukane's right wrist. The sword cleaved the appendage, off with a grisly crunch, hand and sword. Rosa's momentum carried the sword to shoulder level as the hand went flying. Altering the angle of her blade, Rosa hurled her body into a spinning cut, lopping Dukane's head clean off.  
  
Rosa fell to her knees exhausted, her sword dropping from her suddenly nerveless hands. Her head swam, and her body swayed as she closed her eyes against the dizziness. Only one thought burned clearly through her dazed mind.  
  
She had survived.  
  
***  
  
  
  
From his vantage point in a tall tree at the fringes of the camp, Drake saw Dukane's death. That displeased him, the assassin has been one of his better followers. Well, he had found his first target of the night. Flexing his powerful leg muscles, the helmeted and armored warrior leapt from his crouching position atop the branch. With the unique ability that marked him as a Dragon Knight, he soared through the night sky towards his prey, nearly twenty feet away. As he hurtled towards the woman, he pulled his spear in line for her heart.  
  
***  
  
  
  
As he looked up, Xavier saw the dark form descending upon Rosa. He shouted a warning at her, knowing even as he did that it would do no good, knowing that Rosa would never be able to react in time.   
  
Where is your God now?  
  
In a flash of insight, Xavier knew what he had to do.  
  
***  
  
  
  
As she opened her eyes, Rosa saw him, saw Drake swooping down like an owl on a mouse. She froze, turned immobile by the nightmarish vision. She tried to shake it off, tried to dodge, but she knew it was too late. Helplessly, Rosa stared into the face of death.  
  
Something appeared in front of her. At the last moment, Xavier hurled himself in Drake's path, arms out wide in a protective gesture. Drake slammed into him, his momentum combining with Xavier's to thrust the entire length of the cruel spear right through Xavier's body. Before Rosa's horrified eyes, it protruded bloody out of the front of his chest. She met the young priest's eyes, which had gone wide with shock. She tried to say something, but no sound would emerge from her lips.  
  
Xavier looked down, saw the spear sticking out of him, and knew that his life was over. For a moment, he felt despair threaten to sweep over him, but with the wisdom and strength that had guided him all his young life, he put it aside. Raising his head, he met Rosa's eyes again. Somehow, despite his horrific wound, Xavier smiled.   
  
"Forgive him Rosa," he whispered. "Don't let your hatred consume you."  
  
A look of peace came across his young features. Slowly, his eyes began to close.  
  
Callously, Drake yanked the spear back out, ripping the wound further open and letting Xavier's unsupported body collapse to the ground.  
  
"Fool," he said contemptuously.  
  
Shocked, shaking with grief, Rosa slowly looked up at the armored man, Xavier's murderer. With a shriek of rage that sounded like an animal's howl of pain, she leapt at him.  
  
***  
  
  
  
Ellis reached the camp to find that the fight had already begun. The bandit cavalry had ripped into the unsuspecting guards, already reduced in numbers by Lanal's planning and agents. Many died in the initial charge, but the survivors had fallen back among the wagons for defense. The tighter conditions hampered the mounted bandits movements, and soon a pitched battle raged within the camp.  
  
Ellis started to raise her bow to lend her comrades the best assistance she could by attacking the bandits unguarded flank, but then, from across the camp, she saw it. She saw Drake swoop down on Xavier, saw him butcher the helpless man and turn to fight off Rosa's counterattack. She saw, and she knew.  
  
Her arms began to tremble with sheer terror, her legs threatened to buckle. In her mind's eye, she saw another camp, long ago. As the years slipped away, the thick smell of smoke filled her lungs as the pure night air vanished.  
  
And she knew that man.  
  
It all came back to her at that moment, as clearly as if it were happening again before her eyes. In that moment she was no longer a confident, seasoned adventurer, in that moment she was once again a frightened child, hiding under a pile of wreckage as she watched her family being massacred.  
  
She knew then where she had recognized Lanal from, and why he had filled her with such irrational terror. She stood there, oblivious to the danger around her, as she relived the night when the Touten Knights had ridden in and decided to wipe out a small band of performers that their leaders thought might be spies.  
  
She knew.  
  
It was all happening again.  
  
***  
  
  
  
Enraged beyond reason, Rosa slammed her sword down in an overhead cut. Drake easily blocked the clumsy blow with the haft of his spear, then spun the weapon in a counter-clockwise circle. The force of the parry sent the weapon flying from Rosa's sweat drenched hands. Reversing the spin, the brutal warrior slammed the butt of the weapon into her jaw. She went down, sprawling in a heap on the hard, cold ground. Pulling his weapon back, Drake pumped his arms back for one final thrust.  
  
Something leapt on his back, wrapping its legs around his armored waist for support. Hands like stone chopped in at his head from either side in a deadly strike. The force behind them would have broken his skull open if his head had been bare. Drake's sturdy helmet saved his life, but the buffet sent his world spinning around him.  
  
Drake hunched forward as much as his thick armor would allow. The sudden move sent the unseen assailant somersaulting over Drake's shoulders. At the same time, Drake angled his spear upwards, hoping to catch his attacker as he fell.  
  
The figure, agile as a monkey, flipped right over the trap, landing on his feet right in front of Drake. Spinning to face him, the man smashed an open palm strike into the dragoon's armored jaw. Drake stumbled back, waving his spear defensively to ward off any further attacks. It was then that he received his first clear view of his enemy.  
  
He was old, at an age when most men would have spent their days spoiling their grandchildren and annoying their adult offspring. He was bald, his scalp covered by leathery skin that looked like it might block a fairly determined sword slash. He was shorter then average, and his limbs were covered by cords of lean muscle that reminded Drake of a goblin's physique.  
  
"Your name," Drake asked flatly.  
  
"Hanlon," the old warrior replied, equally emotionless.  
  
"You are worth killing."  
  
With that, Drake began to circle slowly, a movement Hanlon mirrored. They paced each other precisely, eyeing each other like junkyard dogs about to rip each other's throats out. Silently, their gazes locked, they watched for an opening.  
  
***  
  
  
  
As Ellis stood paralyzed, the battle for the survival of the camp raged on. The defenders, knowing full well that they were fighting for their lives, fought like cornered sand panthers, but they had been caught by surprise, and they were badly out numbered. The tighter quarters gave them some advantage, but inevitably one mercenary after another fell. Victory for the bandits seemed assured.  
  
Then the watchers decided to join in.  
  
Ellis was the only one to see the pale figures as they loped in on all fours out of the underbrush and towards the melee. As they reached the encircled wagons the stunted figures hurled themselves into the fight, slamming into the unsuspecting riders and dragging them down from their seats. Those whose necks were not broken instantly in the fall had only seconds to realize their fates before razor-sharp teeth ripped out their throats. Their surviving comrades wheeled about in confusion as they turned and identified their attackers  
  
Goblins.  
  
The caravan's defenders, who had luckily been bypassed in favor of the mounted bandits, wisely fell back and allowed their unexpected saviors to focus on the bandits.  
  
One of the ambushers turned victims stumbled out towards them. He had lost his chocobo, his right arm hung broken at an unnatural angle and blood streamed from his forehead. In a pleading tone, he begged them to save him from the vicious monsters, for them to band together in the name of their common humanity. His face grim and pitiless, one of the guards stepped forward and skewered the man with his sword. Raising the gore stained weapon above his head, he turned to his companions.  
  
"If the gobs want to fight them, let'm! Untie the birds!"  
  
The others scrambled to do so, untying the lines that held the terrified chocobos in place. They hadn't been paid enough for this!  
  
***  
  
  
  
A scream split the night as one of the caravan guards was impaled on a bandit lance. Recognizing the voice of one of his men, Hanlon's eyes flickered towards the source of the agonized sound though the wagon blocked the battle from view. Noting Hanlon's distraction, Drake seized the initiative. He rushed forward, stabbing in with his deadly spear. Hanlon backpedaled away from the attack, the spear tip grazing his chest. Retracting his weapon, Drake kept up the offensive, forcing the unarmed warrior to retreat backward. On the third strike, Hanlon caught the shaft of the spear on his forearm and deflected the weapon out to the side. Darting forward down its length, Hanlon head butted Drake square in his armored forehead.  
  
This seemingly idiotic action truly hurt, but it also knocked Drake back half a step. Pressing the advantage, Hanlon kicked straight up with his right leg, smashing it into Drake's jaw. As the dragoon's head snapped backwards, Hanlon fell into a leg sweep, knocking Drake's feet out from under him. The armored juggernaut toppled.  
  
As Hanlon positioned himself to the finish off the fallen warrior, a new threat intervened. Three of the goblin raiders stalked into the area, eyes wide and red. And by the toothy grins on their ugly faces, they did not particularly care which humans they were fighting.   
  
Reevaluating his priorities, Hanlon backed away from Drake. Calmly, the old man tried to figure out just how he was supposed to get out of this one.  
  
***  
  
  
  
A scream ripped through the night as a brilliant flare lit the forest bright as noon. As both Lanal and Gilliam paused and tried to figure out what was going on, they heard the sound of a tree falling to the ground. Lanal could not be sure, but he thought he recognized the voice as Chell's. A sinking feeling fell over Lanal. What was going on over there?  
  
Time for a change of plans.  
  
Cocking his wrist, Lanal hurled the short dagger straight at his enemy's throat. Gilliam, distracted by the disturbance, noticed it at the last second. With barely an instant to react, Gilliam reflexively twisted his wounded arm into a block. The dagger thudded into the flesh of his forearm, drawing a scream from Gilliam's raw throat.  
  
Battered as his target was, Lanal probably could have slain Gilliam if he kept up the fight, but at this point that wasn't a chance he was willing to take. His enemy had proven too resourceful, too lucky. His gut told him that things were going south, and Lanal had long ago learned to heed that voice.  
  
As Gilliam dropped his dagger and tried to stem the blood flow from his arm, Lanal turned and fled.  
  
***  
  
As Hanlon eyed the approaching goblin trio, Drake pulled himself to his feet nearby, leaning on his spear for support. With a reptilian calm, he analyzed the new situation.  
  
Goblins traveled in groups. If there were three here, there were likely thirty nearby. That could throw his carefully executed attack plan out the window.  
  
He turned his head towards his aged nemesis and smiled beneath his mask. No reason to stay here.  
  
Flexing his legs, he sprang into another of his unnatural leaps. Landing atop one of the wagons, he examined the main battle.  
  
Goblins, a whole mob of them, were tearing into his men. They fought with the agility of monkeys and the coordination of a wolf pack. They circled and pounced, switching freely between standing upright and loping on all fours.   
  
His raiders had managed to form up in a rough defensive square, abandoning their mounts to stand back to back. Goblin and human corpses littered the ground underfoot, but for the moment the tight formation was keeping them alive against the wild creatures.  
  
Drake shook his head in disbelief. Where had they come from?  
  
Dismissing the question for the time being, Drake sprang into action. Hurling himself across the intervening distance, he landed like a thunderbolt in the goblins' midst. His spear took one in the throat as he landed. Immediately he yanked it out and slammed the butt end into the wrinkled forehead of another, cracking its thick skull. As it fell to the ground, Drake spun his spear in a pinwheel, driving the diminutive creatures back.  
  
Turning his head to his bandits, he barked an order he was not used to giving.  
  
"Retreat!"  
  
***  
  
  
  
The trio circled Hanlon slowly, lips pulled back in snarls. The old man stood calmly, arms akimbo and body completely relaxed. He took a deep breath, clearing his mind for the fight ahead. Finally, the goblins broke the impasse. With feral snarls, they fell to all fours and charged him. Hanlon stood stock still, an easy target.  
  
At the last second, his eyes flew open. He dashed forward, just as two of them pounced at him. He leapt between them as they hurtled through the air, snapping his legs out into a double side kick that slammed into their respective skulls. They went sprawling to either side. Hanlon landed in a crouch. Straightening, he looked at the third goblin.  
  
"Can we discuss this?" he asked, politely addressing the creature in its own harsh language.  
  
"I will rip open you chest and eat your heart!" the fiery goblin spat back.  
  
Hanlon really did not think it was exaggerating.  
  
Hissing, it fell to all fours and charged him. At the last moment, the cunning creature hurled itself into a roll to the left rather then leap at Hanlon as its compatriots had. Coming to a halt behind him, it hurled itself at Hanlon's vulnerable flank.  
  
But Hanlon was no longer there.  
  
As the goblin had gone into its roll, Hanlon had fallen into a low crouch. The course of the goblin's leap carried it over the ducking warrior, or it would have had Hanlon not stood straight up and grabbed it by the throat. Placing his other hand under the diminutive creature's crotch, Hanlon slammed it into the side of a nearby wagon. As the dazed creature struggled to regain its wits, Hanlon shifted his grip to hold it with one hand. Closing the other hand into a fist, he slammed it into its gut. As the breath was blasted out of it, Hanlon tightened his grip around its neck and lifted it from the ground.  
  
"Now," he said calmly, "you are going to answer some questions for me."  
  
***  
  
  
  
They lunged and leapt, rolled and retreated, swarming him, fighting in perfect coordination. They were fast, and strong, and viciously adept at fighting.  
  
But Drake was no less skilled, no less vicious. Working his spear brilliantly, he fought the mob of goblins to a standstill. He impaled them, cracked skulls and sent them flying. The ones that survived the blows wasted no time in rising to their feet and throwing themselves back at him. They were insane, seeming to care nothing for their own lives.   
  
Drake knew he would soon be overwhelmed.  
  
His men tried to obey the order to retreat, but the goblins were hot on their heels. The ones that simply broke ranks and fled were run down like animals. Their screams were the worst ones.  
  
Drake had bought all the time he could, he had to leave now. A goblin wrapped itself around his right leg, its sharp teeth gnawing futilely at his heavy metal armor as it immobilized him. Raising his other iron booted foot, Drake stomped down on it, hard. The broken creature's grip relaxed, Drake shook it off.  
  
He had to leave.  
  
Gathering himself, he made yet another incredible jump, coming to a landing in a thick-limbed tree at the edge of the camp. Grimly, he watched his bandits being torn apart. Some had managed to flee into the forest, but the goblins were in hot pursuit, Drake doubted he would ever see any of them again.  
  
Wondering if he would be able to salvage anything from this disaster, he retreated into the forest night.  
  
***  
  
  
  
Rosa knelt beside Xavier's still form, her entire body shaking with grief. Cradling his head in her arms, she didn't even feel the pain of her injuries as she rocked back and forth. She vaguely heard the sounds of combat nearby, but she was too numb to raise her head and see what was going on.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why, why did you do it? You knew I hated you, you knew you would die, why did you do it? You could have stayed home, lived a life of luxury, why did you have to go and do this? Why?"  
  
As the hot tears obscured her vision, Rosa dimly saw a light begin to glow before her. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she stared in blank amazement as a silvery light came into being atop Xavier's chest, right on the wound that had killed him. The light began to rise up, solidifying in a small, perfectly formed crystal. The luminous crystal, no bigger then her fist, hovered at eye level with her.  
  
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Somehow, it reminded her of Xavier.  
  
Her hand trembling, she slowly reached out to touch it. As her fingertips brushed against it lightly, she was surprised to feel that it was not hard at all. It was warm, and indescribably alive. As she made contact with it, a burst of warmth shot through her body. She gasped as an unearthly sense of comfort filled her soul, and everything seemed to fall away…  
  
She was unaware of it, but her body fell to the ground. Oblivious, she sprawled face down beside him.  
  
***  
  
  
  
Gasping for breath, the cut in his side flashing pain with every jarring step, Gilliam sprinted through the forest. He had recovered his sword, although he wasn't sure if he could actually wield it at this point. His wounded right arm was tucked against the side to minimize the bleeding, and he held the sword clutched awkwardly in his left hand.   
  
But that didn't matter, the stubborn mercenary's mind insisted. Lanal's treacherous attack (why had he betrayed them?) could only be part of a larger plan. These bandits, whoever they were, were far more cunning and skilled then they had been given credit for. Gilliam wondered just how many other people in the merchant's guild were part of the operation.  
  
But that was beside the point. His comrades, Ellis, all of them were likely fighting for their lives. Ignoring the pleas of his damaged body, Gilliam picked up the pace.  
  
He was very surprised to learn that the fight was over.  
  
The camp site looked like a scene out of Hell. Bodies were strewn everywhere like rag dolls, blood stained the grass and made it as slippery as ice. The screams of the wounded and the dying added an infernal chorus, and Gilliam found himself wondering when the demons would appear.  
  
A cry caught his attention. He turned to see Ellis curled up behind a tree, he arms wrapped around her knees. He ran to her, crouching down beside her. She started to panic as he approached, but relaxed slightly as she recognized him.  
  
"G-Gilliam?" she asked pitifully.  
  
Gilliam started to ask what had happened, wanting to gain a picture of the situation, but was cut off as Ellis flung her arms around him and collapsed sobbing against his chest. Instinctively, Gilliam wrapped his arms around her, murmuring something soothing, wondering when the sun would rise. 


	7. The Next Day

The dawn only illuminated the horrific scene more clearly.  
  
Rosa awoke to find her hand clutching Xavier's. For a moment, that fact comforted her, bringing back the peace that she had felt as she slept.  
  
Then she remembered, and reality came crashing down on her.  
  
She released the dead hand instantly, scrambling away awkwardly. Her breath quickened and her pulse raced as she remembered the vicious battles of the night before. She remembered her duel with the assassin, the shock of Xavier's murder, and her futile attempt at revenge. And after that…  
  
After that, everything became hazy. She vaguely remembered some sort of light, but the details of the memory scattered like pollen in the wind as she tried to recall them.  
  
Perhaps it had all been a dream?  
  
She rose, dismissing the confused images. What did it matter? It would not change anything. He was dead.  
  
She looked at Xavier's still warm body. Grief filled her once more, but the edge was gone. It had been altered somehow, become easier to bear, less raw, although no less deep.  
  
As she stood, she realized that her leg was supporting her without complaint! Her ankle felt fine, and her many cuts and bruises seemed to have vanished without a trace. She did not understand it, but she knew, somehow, that Xavier was responsible.  
  
A single tear rolled down her cheek. Wiping it off, she turned away. She had to see if anyone else had survived the night.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Gilliam's awakening was less peaceful. As he rolled over slightly, he laid on the wound Lanal's dagger has left in his side. The pain broke his dark, dreamless sleep like rock hitting pottery. He sprang into a sitting position, only to immediately fall prone again, this time gasping in pain. He opened his eyes to see Ellis staring down at him. His head had been lying in her lap.  
  
"So you're awake," she said quietly.  
  
"W-What happened?" he asked, trying again to sit up. "How did I end up here?"  
  
"You fainted last night," she said as she gently but firmly pushed him back down. "You should not have been running with those wounds."  
  
All traces of the vulnerability and panic that had been written on her face last night were gone, replaced by the calm, cheerful adventurer's façade she normally wore. Gilliam wondered if he had imagined the stark terror he had seen in her, or if Ellis was as adept at acting as she was a juggling.  
  
Another stab of pain drew his attention back to his injuries. He reached for his side with his left hand to find that it was tightly bandaged. His right arm was also heavily wrapped with cloth. Ellis noticed his movements.  
  
"I cleaned out your wounds the best I could. They're bad, but there was no internal bleeding, otherwise you wouldn't be here. I did have to cut your shirt off though."  
  
Gilliam wondered what he should say.  
  
"I, thank you. Where did you learn how to do this sort of thing?"  
  
Ellis shrugged absently.  
  
"When you travel as much as I have, you pick up a thing or two.  
  
Gilliam started to say something else, but a wave of nausea cut him off.  
  
"Not so fast," Ellis cautioned him. "Alberto gave you a drug to reduce the pain, but it must be wearing off," She turned her head back towards the entrance. "Alberto!"  
  
"Where are we?" Gilliam managed to croak.  
  
"In one of the wagons. Now hush."  
  
Gilliam began to drift back into darkness, but it was not the cold blackness it had been. It seemed almost comforting this time. Ellis…  
  
***********************************************************************  
  
Gilliam awoke once more sometime later (he could not tell how long) with a shriek of pain. His head jerked up and he saw Alberto's face as the mage knelt over him. Alberto nodded and released Gilliam's arm.   
  
"What are you doing?!" Gilliam demanded.  
  
Alberto looked at Gilliam intently, his pure blue eyes fevered.  
  
"Checking you injuries. You were lucky, the blade nicked the nerves and damaged the muscle, but nothing was severed. You should be able to regain the use of your arm, eventually."  
  
"Eventually?" Gilliam asked nervously. "How long?"  
  
Alberto shrugged. "A few months. Less if we can find a good healer."  
  
Alberto held his thumb and forefinger less then an inch apart. "It came this close to slashing the blood vessel in your forearm open!" he said cheerfully. Now, does it still hurt?"  
  
Gilliam started to snap at him, but realized that the pain had in fact faded. He shook his head.   
  
"Good," Alberto said. "The opiate is taking effect."  
  
Gilliam glared at him. "And why didn't you wait until after it did before you started poking my arm?"   
  
Alberto shrugged.  
  
"Where's Ellis?" Gilliam asked as he looked around the wagon's interior.   
  
"Outside," Alberto said cheerfully. She and Rosa are digging a pit for all the bodies."  
  
Gilliam winced despite the pain-killer.   
  
"How many?" he asked quietly.  
  
"Not many of ours, actually," Alberto said, oblivious to Gilliam's distress. "Many of the guards died, but at least half of them managed to escape when the goblins came. A bunch of the bandits are dead, and I think that the priest guy is too."  
  
Gilliam closed his eyes at that last part. He had barely known Xavier, but the young cleric had been the most comforting person in the entire caravan. He reopened his eyes and looked back at Alberto as a question hit him"  
  
"Goblins?"  
  
"Long story."  
  
Rapidly, Alberto filled him in. Gilliam shook his head in disbelief. They had been saved by a pack of goblins? That was why they had survived?  
  
"Actually, the old guy, Hanlon, managed to capture one. I was just about to go out and see it when you woke up. Do you feel up to moving?"  
  
Gilliam nodded unsteadily. Alberto pointed to a broken branch about three feet long that was leaning against the foot of the bed.  
  
"We found a stick for you to use."  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Gilliam blinked as his eyes adjusted to the morning light. As he emerged from the wagon, leaning on his make-shift staff, he saw Hanlon, Rosa, and Ellis standing around a squirming form lying on the ground. Hanlon seemed completely unconcerned, but whatever it was clearly had Rosa and Ellis on edge. Rosa was fingering the hilt of her sword nervously, and Ellis had bow and arrow in hand. She had not pulled the shaft back yet, but she was clearly ready to do so at any time.   
  
Hanlon looked up as Gilliam and Alberto exited the wagon. "Ah good, you're here. We can begin."   
  
He pulled the bound creature to its feet. Gilliam started as he realized that he was looking at a snarling goblin!  
  
"This is Katoi," Hanlon began calmly. "He and I had a long chat last night about his clan and those bandits. Isn't that right Katoi?"  
  
Hanlon had not done anything threatening, but the goblin flinched at his words. Ceasing his struggling, Katoi settled down. Gilliam wondered just what Hanlon had done to induce such obedience in the savage creature.  
  
"Apparently the bandits we were hunting have skirmished with some of Katoi's people, and have occupied one of their caves as a hideout. This made the goblins very unhappy, and Katoi's group has been hunting them for revenge. As luck would have it, they went after the bandits at the same time the bandits went after us."  
  
Rosa shuddered.  
  
"Who were those people? No ordinary bandits, that's clear."  
  
Hanlon started to respond, but Ellis beat him to it.  
  
"Touten," she said, in a voice of utter hatred.  
  
Hanlon nodded, his face turning grim.  
  
"Indeed. But how did you know?"  
  
Ellis looked at him coldly.  
  
"Several years ago, a group of soldiers rode into my family's camp during the night and slaughtered every single one of them. I was only a child, but I will never forget the dragoon that led them, or the red-haired assassin that followed him."  
  
"Drake and Lanal."  
  
They all turned to look at Hanlon.  
  
"That is their names. The one in the armor is Drake, the red-haired one is Lanal."   
  
He turned to Alberto.  
  
"The wizard you fought in the forest is named Chell. The three of them were officers in the Touten knights during the war, and some of most evil bastards I've ever seen."  
  
"How do you know them?" Rosa asked suspiciously.  
  
"I fought as a mercenary during the War; I was assigned to the same area as them a few times." Hanlon stared off into the distance for a moment, seeming to look at something in the depths of his memory.  
  
"They're monsters," he said quietly. "They butchered anyone who got in their path, slaughtered entire villages to keep the enemy from using them, and the things they did to prisoners…"  
  
Hanlon fell silent.  
  
"How did they end up as bandits?" Gilliam asked.   
  
Hanlon shrugged.  
  
"Back then, they nobles were willing to ignore the way they fought as long as they were successful. But once it was over, they couldn't be allowed to continue. They were probably either banished or arrested afterwards when the Touten were disbanded."  
  
"Just what are we up against?" Gilliam pressed. Hanlon looked at him gravely.  
  
"Some of the worst enemies you could find. The small one, Lanal, is a master assassin. He's adept at infiltration, and with his demeanor people automatically trust him, until he puts a knife between their ribs."  
  
Gilliam winced and held his side as Hanlon continued.  
  
"The one in the armor is Drake. No one knows where he came from or what he looks like behind that mask. All I know is that he is probably the most efficient killer in the world. He comes out of nowhere, is a master with the spear, and is almost invincible behind that armor."  
  
"The third one," he continued, "is Chell. On the surface, he appears emotionless, but don't be fooled. He's a sadist, and he loves nothing more then feeling a person die at his hands."  
  
Hanlon's body shook.  
  
"He's the one that's haunted my worst nightmares over the years. Some of the things I've seen him do, no, you're better off not knowing."  
  
They were all silent for a moment.   
  
Finally, Gilliam cleared his throat and spoke up.  
  
"So what do we do now?"  
  
After a moment, Ellis spoke, her voice as cold as ice.  
  
"We track them down and we kill them."  
  
Hanlon turned to her in surprise.   
  
"Agreed," Rosa said, her tone equally grim.  
  
"You mean to go after them after all I've told you? Are you insane?! I don't care how much you are being paid, it's not worth it!"  
  
"Money has nothing to do with it," Rosa said, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "I watched a good man die in my arms last night after Drake murdered him. I can't walk away, not after that."  
  
"This is personal," Ellis agreed.  
  
Hanlon turned to Gilliam, hoping he would see reason, but he too nodded.  
  
"We left the Hokuten because of people like them. I've stood by and watched innocent people die too many times; I won't let it happen again! If we walk away now, more people with die at their hands."   
  
Growing animated despite his injured state, Gilliam gestured around at the carnage around them.  
  
"If they are not stopped, this will happen again to someone else!"  
  
Hanlon turned to Alberto, but realized he would find no support there. Sighing, he finally relented.  
  
"Alright. If you are all determined to go, I'll come with you."  
  
They looked at him in surprise.  
  
"You would come with us?" Gilliam asked.  
  
Hanlon, his face a stone mask, looked at him.  
  
"Those were my men who died last night, guards under my command, people I lived and worked with. This is my fight too."  
  
A spot of moisture filled his aged eyes, Hanlon quickly brushed it away.  
  
"Besides," he said huskily, "I stood by and watched too many times myself."  
  
All was silent for a minute. Then Alberto asked a question.  
  
"So how are we going to find them?"  
  
Rosa, Ellis, and Gilliam all flinched at that. None of them had thought that far ahead. Hanlon, regaining his composure, grinned.  
  
"Remember how I said they took one of the goblins' homes as their hideout? Katoi here knows exactly where they are."  
  
"You want us to trust a goblin?!" Gilliam asked incredulously.  
  
"We trust Alberto, don't we?" Ellis pointed out.  
  
"Good point," he conceded.  
  
Crouching in front of the small creature, Gilliam looked into its red eyes.  
  
"Are you willing to help us find Drake and the others?"  
  
Katoi leapt to his feet. "I will tear them limb from limb and eat their hearts!" he snarled viciously.  
  
"I think I am going to like him," Alberto commented.  
  
That drew a slight chuckle from Hanlon, but, after seeing the dead serious expressions on the other's faces he stopped. A new thought occurred to him.  
  
"What happened to Chell anyway?"  
  
Alberto just smiled.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
  
  
Amid the blasted trees and burnt underbrush, a charred, blacked figure lay motionless. The ground around it had been scorched bare, leaving only flame-hardened earth behind.  
  
Its clothing had been ripped and partially burned away by the energies that had seared its flesh black. For several long moments, it was utterly still, then it shuddered as it drew in a ragged breath.  
  
Somehow, Chell clung to life.  
  
He did not seem likely to stay that way for long. His body had been blasted mercilessly; it was a testament to Chell's iron will that he survived at all. But the trauma was too severe; stubbornness could only hold the darkness back for so long. In a matter of minutes, Chell would be dead.  
  
The wizard refused to accept it. Desperately, he tried to focus his remaining strength. His thoughts flew back to his early days, to the gentle monks that had taken him into their monastery and taught him all they knew of the healing arts.  
  
He remembered how he had grown dissatisfied with such simple spells, how he had delved deeper, learning darker magics.  
  
He remembered how he had used that magic to murder the kind monks, one by one.  
  
He had enjoyed that.  
  
It was those first spells that Chell needed now, needed the gentle healing energies that could save him. He called to them, shaping his will to summon forth the magic he needed to live.  
  
It was no good, the magic would not come.  
  
Chell's magic centered on the balance between two poles, light and dark, life and death. He had realized early on that if he tilted the balance in the opposite direction a healing spell could become a deadly weapon.  
  
But Chell had thrown that delicate balance aside, had embraced the darkness, embraced death. And now, when he needed it most, the light of life would not come.  
  
Infuriated, Chell screamed in outrage. Defiant and unrepentant, he used his rage to reach for the other pole, calling out to the darkness. And the darkness answered.  
  
Blackness began to crawl into being around his body, spreading over his form like ink. It engulfed him, enshrouded him, enfolded him. He could feel it worming itself into his body, coating his burns, seeping through every pore. He screamed, whether in torment or ecstasy he could not say.  
  
He stood, black energy surrounding him like a cloak. He laughed in triumph, knowing that somehow he had prevailed. He rested his hands against one of the still standing trees. The dark aura spread from him and slid onto the tree.  
  
As the corrupting power swept over the tree it withered and died. Its leaves fell and its branches rotted. Finally, the once proud giant broke with a dull crack and fell to the ground, already rotting.  
  
Unlike his life-draining spells, none of tree's strength flowed into him. That was alright, it was a small price to pay for the unholy pleasure of killing the once living thing.  
  
The nimbus of darkness around Chell began to fade, revealing the necromancer in his tattered robes. All trace of injury was gone; his flesh was whole and seemed completely unmarred, albeit a bit gray. He clapped his hands exultantly, then looked down at them curiously as the made a dry click.  
  
His hands were nothing more then fleshless bone. Where the energy from Alberto's counter spell had burned him there was nothing left but two skeletal appendages. From the wrists up his arms were normal, all except the bleached bone at the ends.  
  
Curiously, he tried to flex them. The nerveless fingers obeyed his will as perfectly as if they were still covered with skin.  
  
Deciding it must be the result of whatever magic had saved him, he shrugged, accepting the bizarre change. He rather liked their new appearance, actually.  
  
He started to walk off, then stopped as a strange feeling came over him. He stopped and focused his attention on a point several yards away. A strange sensation swept over him, and his surroundings simply fell away to be replaced by a new setting!  
  
He looked around, trying to regain his bearings. Somehow he had simply teleported across the intervening distance!  
  
Chell smiled. This new state, whatever it was, had many advantages indeed. But for now, he would walk.  
  
He had to find the others.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Far away, in a dark, lightless place, Lich watched Chell's progress.  
  
And smiled.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Lanal shut up for once.  
  
He sensed Drake's anger at the night's events, his rage at being forced to flee in defeat. Lanal knew he should remain silent for now, knew that better then to remind his vicious leader of his own failures.  
  
But for all of his years of hard experience, Lanal had never learned to keep his mouth shut.  
  
"How many are left?"  
  
Drake made no reply. After several seconds, Lanal started to speak again, but Drake cut him off.  
  
"Less then a dozen remain at the base. It is unlikely that more then a handful of the men who fled into the forest will return, if any."  
  
"Too few to continue operations," a new voice interrupted. Both Drake and Lanal turned to see Chell standing there, his hands tucked into the full sleeves of his tattered robes.  
  
"So you survived!" Lanal said enthusiastically. "After the sounds I heard, I was worried. What happened?"  
  
"That is none of your concern," Chell said flatly. "Now, what is our next move?"  
  
"We will have to go underground until we can replenish our ranks," Drake said.   
  
Lanal sighed. "We will have to train them from scratch, and most of our officers died last night," he groused. "It will take awhile to put together an usable force."  
  
"There is never a lack of men willing to kill for wealth," Drake stated coldly.  
  
"I take it our arrangement with that nobleman is off?"  
  
Drake nodded.  
  
"Then we must get rid of him, he knows too much about us and our operations. Tiran as well, after tonight he will realize what I am, and he knows my face."  
  
"We will see to them all," Drake promised.  
  
"I will not be going with you," Chell interjected. Drake turned to regard him. Anyone else he would have killed on the spot for speaking thus, but the dragoon had reached a mutual understanding with the taciturn wizard over the years. He waited for Chell to elaborate.  
  
"I may be able to strengthen our forces. I will meet you at the base."  
  
So saying, Chell closed his eyes. With a crackle of black light, he was gone.  
  
"When did he learn to do that?!" Lanal exclaimed. Drake started at him coldly.  
  
"Chell's magic is Chell's business. Now, we go."  
  
"As you say sir," Lanal replied obediently. "Ah, which way is Dorter?"  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Katoi sniffed suddenly. Stopping in his tracks, the goblin went down on all fours. The others eyed him nervously, wondering what the unpredictable creature was up to. Katoi looked up at them.  
  
"They passed this way."  
  
Hanlon looked at him intently. "Which ones."  
  
"Two," the goblin grunted. "I smell metal. One of them is heavy, the other light."  
  
"Drake and Lanal," Hanlon said. "Which way were they going?"  
  
Katoi was already moving. "This way."  
  
They followed Katoi's lead as the goblin followed the tracks, often stopping to check for a boot print or sniff the ground. After about an hour, he came to an abrupt halt.  
  
"A third one joined them here," Katoi announced. "I smell death."  
  
"Death?" Rosa asked curiously.  
  
"Death," the goblin confirmed.  
  
Before Rosa could ask him to elaborate, the goblin began speaking again.  
  
"They stayed here for sometime, then left in that direction," he said, pointing east. "They are not heading towards their lair."  
  
"They're headed towards Dorter," Rosa pointed out. "They must still have business there."  
  
"Tiran."  
  
As one they looked towards Ellis.  
  
"He might be able to help us, if they are in the city," she finished.  
  
"He might be working with them. You said he was the one that assigned Lanal with us," Gilliam pointed out.  
  
Ellis shook her head.  
  
"I don't think so, he seemed trustworthy."  
  
"I would have said the same thing about Lanal," Gilliam muttered under his breath.  
  
"If he isn't, he might be their next target," Hanlon pointed out. "That would be their usual tactics; they never like to leave witnesses behind."  
  
"Either way, Dorter is where we need to go," Rosa interjected.  
  
"I know a woman there who could treat Gilliam's injuries completely," Alberto said unexpectedly.  
  
"She's right," Gilliam agreed, privately shaking the thought of having Alberto chose his doctor. "Let's get a move on; they have a head start on us."  
  
They all agreed, and soon the party was off. Katoi sniffed the air in confusion as they left the area though.  
  
Only two sets of tracks led away from the place.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Chell opened his eyes as the abandoned campground came into being around him. Removing his skeletal hands from his sleeves, he clicked his fingers together rhythmically. Slowly, he looked the place over.  
  
The wagons still stood there, abandoned by the survivors. The ground, torn up by the clawed feet of the galloping chocobos, was turning to puddles of mud under the light rain that had begun to fall. In his mind, he could hear the screams of dying men from the night before as clearly as if he had been there. He smiled.  
  
He walked across the tortured earth, newly gained senses guiding him inerrantly towards what he sought. Soon he stood before a large patch of recently overturned soil. Under it, he could sense the bodies of the fallen buried beneath. Spreading his hands wide, he began to emit an eerie sound from the back of his throat. It was a song of smothering earth and rotting flesh, of the nothingness that lay beneath reality. It was a canticle to Death Itself.  
  
Crouching, he placed his hands palms down against the dirt of the mass grave. A black ichor began to congeal into being atop them, dripping into the soil. The ground seemed to wither somehow as it did, a sickening, fetid stench arising from it. Poisoning the earth itself with his evil, Chell chanted, calling out to the darkness.  
  
The ground began to bulge and shift, as though the very land was straining to escape his touch. Finally, a pallid hand pushed through the soil, followed be many, many more. A grin of depraved pleasure split the evil man's face as bandit and guardsman alike rose to his call.  
  
When it was done, Chell looked at them. They stood at strange, unnatural angles, like puppets jerking to crude tugs on a string. Fatal wounds lay wide open and covered with grave soil, letting out a stench that would make a normal man vomit. Only their eyes showed any signs of true life, red, and gleaming with malignant intelligence.  
  
"I have summoned you here and clothed you in mortal husks that you might do what you love the best: kill the living. Know this. If you obey me, you will feel the crunch of human flesh and bone beneath your hands. Defy me, and I will cast you back into the pits I drew you from, and find replacements from among your brethren. Do you understand?"  
  
A ghastly moan went up from among the zombie ranks, answering Chell's question. He smiled again and prepared to go, but then something else caught his attention.  
  
There was another body nearby.  
  
At the edge of the clearing, under a tall, majestic tree, a small grave had been dug. Focusing his will, he blinked in and out of existence, reappearing before it. Placing his hands atop the grave, he repeated his chant.  
  
But something blocked him, driving him back. He fell back a few steps, hands instinctively positioned to block whatever inexplicable force had driven him off. As hard as he tried, he could not reach the grave!  
  
Snarling with anger, he slapped his hand against the tree. He jerked it back the instant he made contact with the bark, hissing with pain. It had burned him!  
  
Angrily, he called out to his undead minions, telepathically commanding them to dig up the grave. The nearest ones shambled over to obey him, but as they came close they too stumbled back, arms raised as if to shield their eyes. Chell shouted at them to go on, but no matter how much he cursed them they would not budge.  
  
Finally he gave up and walked into the forest, heading towards the base. His undead host trailed behind him, stomping the underbrush to death beneath their feet.  
  
And through it all, Xavier's body did not budge. 


	8. Pursuit

Chapter Eight  
  
Pursuit  
  
They all heaved a sigh of relief (except for Alberto and Katoi) as they emerged from the forest. Ellis shielded her eyes against the sudden glare. The sun was blinding after the gloom of the woods, and it took awhile for their eyes to adjust to the bright afternoon light. Ellis' did first, and she squinted to make out the carts and wagons that crowded the road ahead, all headed to or from the markets of Dorter. She turned to the others.  
  
"We should arrive within a couple of hours. We need to come up with a plan for when we get there."  
  
"I'll come with you to meet this Tiran," Rosa said. "If he is their target, or their ally, you shouldn't go alone."  
  
"What about Gilliam?" Ellis asked. "Alberto, you said you know a healer?"  
  
The mage nodded.  
  
"I'll accompany the two of them to see this person, after that we can all rendezvous," Hanlon said  
  
"There's just one problem with that," Gilliam interjected.  
  
"What's that?" Hanlon asked.  
  
Gilliam looked at Katoi meaningfully. "How many goblins do you suppose there are walking the streets of Dorter?" he asked dryly.  
  
Hanlon looked embarrassed. "Oops."  
  
"We can sneak him in and rent a room somewhere in the slums. You stay there with him. We'll met up there."  
  
Hanlon hesitated, then nodded. "Very well."  
  
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Lanal, recently bathed and wearing a fresh set of fashionable clothes, was beginning to feel like himself again as he walked through the doors of the 'Juravis's Eggs.' He waved off the doorman's offer to take his cloak, saying that he would only be there a short time. He sighed happily as he looked around the upscale restaurant. This was where he belonged, not slogging across some muddy battlefield or sulking through a forest. He ignored the fact that his clothes were stolen and his parents had raised pigs for a living. This was his place.  
  
He spotted Tiran at a table by one of the windows, looking over some papers as he ate. Lanal stalked towards him like a cat, slipping into a chair across from him with barely a noise. Tiran jumped in surprise when he looked up and saw Lanal sitting there.  
  
"W-What in blazes are you doing here?!" he demanded. "What happened to the wagons?"  
  
Lanal adopted a weary expression. "We were attacked. The plan backfired, almost everyone was slaughtered. I barely escaped with my life."  
  
Tiran looked as if he had been punched in the gut. So much had been riding on that plan, and for it to fail…  
  
"How?" he asked.  
  
Lanal lowered his voice. "You were right, there is a traitor. One bit of good news has come about from this though. I know who he is."  
  
"Who?" Tiran demanded.  
  
Lanal looked about nervously. "We should not speak of this where we can be overheard so easily. Is there a more private place we could move to?"  
  
"I have a private booth in the back," Tiran said as he rose. "Come."  
  
"As you command, my lord," Lanal said politely.  
  
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Gilliam looked around in amazement as Alberto led him into the cluttered shop. He had thought his travels (and especially his dealings with the unpredictable wizard) had inured him to bizarre things, but he still found himself gawking like the artifacts that filled the place like a peasant at a stage magician's tricks.  
  
It took several seconds for him to notice the old crone sitting at the counter. Her small, fragile figure was almost lost amid the chaotic array that surrounded her. Alberto was standing next to her, and the two were conversing in a low tone of voice. Gilliam, not wanting to leave Alberto unattended, hobbled over, his walking stick banging against the wooden floor. He gasped softly at the stabbing pain in his side, but he forced himself to ignore it. He had managed to march all the way here, and although he was turning a bit pale he hadn't collapsed yet. The crone turned her surprisingly bright eyes towards him as he reached the counter and leaned against it for support.  
  
"So, you're wanting old Meroe to look him over," the sorceress said, enjoying the charade. "Well, come on in back, the light in here ain't good enough for me old eyes."  
  
Back bent, she hobbled over to the shelf behind her and triggered the hidden door. As a section of the wall slid open, she hobbled inside, muttering under her breath all the while. She paused for a moment to look back at them.  
  
"Come on, I'm not getting any younger!"  
  
Once he was inside, Gilliam was again stunned by the marvels haphazardly scattered across the room. He looked around the chamber in awe until a female voice, completely unlike the old crone's, caught his attention.  
  
"Well, lie down!"  
  
He turned towards Meroe to see a beautiful young woman wearing an exotic dress standing in her place.  
  
Before he could ask the obvious question, she pushed the gaping Gilliam towards a mat by the wall.  
  
"Lie down," she insisted, nearly shoving the startled Gilliam onto his back. She was much stronger then her small build would have suggested. Once he sat down, she tapped her foot impatiently.  
  
"Shirt off."  
  
Gilliam, embarrassed to undress in front of the strange young woman, reluctantly complied. Forcing him flat on his back, Meroe crouched beside him and examined him intently.  
  
Carefully, she peeled off the makeshift bandages. Blood had seeped into the material, and they stuck to his body, but she managed to remove them without reopening the wounds.  
  
After about a minute of examination, she looked up to Alberto.  
  
"I can fix him."  
  
She turned back to Gilliam.  
  
"This is going to sting a bit."  
  
"What's going to sting a…"  
  
As he spoke, Meroe slid her hands across his arm and side, coming to a rest atop his injuries. He started to blush, but his response was cut off as he heard her chanting.  
  
"What are you…? Aiiieeee!"  
  
A shriek of pain erupted from Gilliam's throat, cutting off his question. An electric surge of energy shot through his body, sending pain jolting through every nerve. He arched his back in agony as waves of the energy pulsed through his body, screaming like a prisoner on a torture rack.  
  
An eternity later, it stopped. He collapsed, gasping in relief. Meroe rose and turned to Alberto.  
  
"He should be alright. The wounds are completely healed; they shouldn't give him any more trouble."  
  
Alberto looked at Gilliam.  
  
"He looks half-dead," he observed with some authority.  
  
Meroe shrugged sprightly.  
  
"He'll get over it."  
  
Alberto thought about it, then shrugged as well.  
  
"So, what do I owe you?"  
  
Meroe shook her head.  
  
"I still owe you for the eggs, let's call it even."  
  
Alberto nodded thankfully.  
  
"Can I move him yet?"  
  
"You should probably give him a few more minutes. So, what happened to him?"  
  
Alberto related the story of the bandit ambush, including his duel with Chell. Meroe listened intently, her eyes going wide at some points. When Alberto finished, she exclaimed, "I knew that book was trouble!"  
  
A groan from Gilliam signaled that he was beginning to recover.  
  
"Time to go," Alberto said. "People to kill."  
  
Meroe nodded. "Come by once this is done, I want to hear how it turns out." Giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, she sprang off.  
  
Alberto stood there in surprise for a moment, then picked up Gilliam. As the dizzy swordsman leaned on his shoulder for support, Alberto led him out, thinking about Meroe's words. Maybe he would…  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Ellis caught Rosa's arm as they entered the street that held "The Juravis's Eggs," where (she hoped) Tiran awaited.  
  
"Wait here," she explained. "Watch the door in case I miss them."  
  
Rosa hesitated for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. Walking to a bench across the street from the upscale restaurant, she took a seat, careful to keep her cloak draped over her sword.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Ellis walked purposely to the door. Unlike the last time she had come here, Ellis had not taken the time to try to dress as if she belonged, or to clean the trail dust from her clothes and body. Her trusty longbow was slung comfortably over her shoulder, and the familiar weight did wonders for her confidence.  
  
As she walked in, looking every inch the lower class adventurer that she was, Olan's eyebrows shot up. Before he could shout for her to be removed from the premises, Ellis slid forward, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Throwing her arms out wide, she seized him in what appeared to be a fond embrace.  
  
Olan felt something sharp sting him in the crotch. He looked down to see that Ellis had a small dagger in her hand and pressed against his groin.  
  
"If you so much as glance at your thugs," Ellis said in a low, pleasant voice, "I'll cut your balls off. Understand?"  
  
Turning pale, Olan nodded.  
  
"Good," Ellis said. "Now, is Tiran in?"  
  
"Y-Yes, in his private booth in the back."  
  
"Wonderful. Now, you are going to show me there."  
  
Ellis released Olan from her embrace and seized Olan's left arm in a viselike grip in one deft movement. Repositioning the dagger against his ribs, she pressed against him to shield the weapon from view. To a causal onlooker, it would appear that Olan was being a gentleman and escorting her in. She prodded him none too gently. They walked in together.  
  
Several of the wealthy patrons looked at her sweat-stained traveler's clothing and dirty face with surprise and contempt, but with Olan's arm looped around her own no one objected. Once they reached Tiran's booth, she looked him square in the eye before releasing him.   
  
"Remember, even if you call your guards, I will get you."  
  
Ellis was surprised that the sound of Olan's gulp didn't draw the other patrons' attention.  
  
Letting him go, she raised her hand, smiling mockingly. Fear and disgust warring in his eyes, Olan lifted it and kissed it. Spinning on his feet, he stormed off. Grinning, Ellis let him go and slipped into the curtained booth.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Nervous fear shot through Lanal's body as he saw Ellis enter the dining room. How had she known where to find him? Mentally, he cursed himself for the time he had wasted grooming himself and obtaining clean clothing rather then immediately taking care of the job.  
  
He had been stepping out of Tiran's booth when she entered. Springing into action, he fell in step behind a passing waiter, letting the servant's body hide him from Ellis's line of sight. When the waiter began to turn, Lanal faked a stumble, falling into a crouch next to a table occupied by a wealthy merchant and his women. He apologized quietly, sheepishly blaming poorly made pair of new shoes. A few seconds later, Ellis walked by the other side of the table, less then six feet away from him. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, he watched her enter Tiran's booth.  
  
Lanal smiled as an idea hit him. Standing, he adopted a shocked, horrified expression (made all the more believable by the fear Ellis's unexpected appearance had inspired in him). Carefully keeping his cloak wrapped around his body, he waited until Olan moved away and then shouted loudly.  
  
"Murder! Master Tiran has been murdered!"  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Ellis began speaking as she entered Tiran's booth, hoping she was not interrupting anything important.  
  
"I'm sorry to barge in unannounced, but I have important information…"  
  
Ellis stopped talking when she saw that Tiran was dead.  
  
It was a grisly sight. His throat had been slashed open, and blood had soaked his clothes and sprayed the table and the walls of the booth. Over a dozen stab wounds covered his torso, as if the killer's rage had not been satisfied by the first, fatal wound. His dead eyes were still wide with horror, and a rag had been shoved into his mouth to prevent him from screaming.  
  
As the horrified Ellis took in the grisly scene, she heard Lanal's shout.  
  
"Murder! Master Tiran has been murdered!"  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
As they left Meroe's shop, Gilliam shook of Alberto's support and tried to walk on his own. He wobbled for a moment, but was able to gain his balance and remain upright. Matching Alberto's pace, he gave the wizard a sidelong glance.  
  
"Who," he asked, "was that?"  
  
Alberto shrugged. "Eh, a lady I did some business with, I'd only met her once."  
  
Gilliam glared at his companion. "And you trusted her to heal me?" he asked incredulously, still remembering the agonizing pain of the experience.  
  
"You are healed, correct?" Alberto replied reasonably.  
  
He was right, Gilliam knew. His injuries had vanished without a trace, healed without leaving so much as a scar behind. He could move without a twinge of pain or stiffness. Realizing that he had no grounds to complain did little to improve Gilliam's disposition, but he did drop the subject.  
  
As they approached the seedy inn where Hanlon and Katoi waited, Gilliam spotted something on the roof of the ramshackle building. A large figure covered head to toe with heavy metal armor and holding a long spear stood atop it. Even as Gilliam watched, it leapt a dozen feet and a full story to the next building.  
  
Gilliam had never seen the bandit leader before, but from the description his companions had given him he knew that this could only be Drake.  
  
Gilliam grabbed Alberto by the elbow and pointed the fast-moving dragoon out as he moved from building to building, then sprinted off after him. Alberto began to lag behind after several minutes, but the athletic Gilliam kept up the pace.  
  
The chase led from the slums where Gilliam had first spotted the dragoon to the clean streets and fashionable houses of one of the upper-class neighborhoods. This was the home of the lower rungs of polite society, populated by minor nobles and wealthy merchants.   
  
Gilliam was lucky enough avoid the constables that patrolled the area on the lookout for the peasant riffraff he resembled. Finally, Drake leapt the wall of one of the mansions, landing in the courtyard.  
  
Gilliam came to a halt as he tried to decide his next move, wondering how he could continue his pursuit. Something about the place nagged at him, something disturbingly familiar. He stared at the mansion, wondering what it was. Then it hit him, and his eyes widened with shock.  
  
He knew this place…  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Atris Saryas yawned as he leaned back in his comfortable chair, arms stretching. His stiff joints popped as he did so, drawing a grimace from the fifty-two year old man. Straightening, he gathered up the financial papers he had been reviewing and placed them back in their portfolio. He gulped the last of his cider (he never drank alcohol, an odd trait for a nobleman) and rose, his aged body sore from inactivity. He turned towards the door to the sitting room. It was almost time for his midday meal, and his coach would be arriving soon.  
  
""We need to talk."  
  
Atris whirled towards the door when he heard the menacing voice, instinctively falling into a fighting stance. His eyes darted to the sword hanging over the fireplace for a moment, then back to the intruder. He gasped as he saw Drake's imposing form standing in the doorway.  
  
He quickly recovered his presence of mind.  
  
"What are you doing here?" he dared to snap. "If you are seen here, our arrangement…"  
  
"That is not my concern," Drake said, cutting him off. "Our deal is over; find someone else to harass your rivals' shipping."  
  
Atris was stunned.  
  
"Why?" he asked, his voice calm again. "Our partnership has served us both well, you're bandits have had easy pickings. What is the meaning of this?"  
  
"Circumstances have changed," Drake explained flatly. "We met with unexpected resistance on our last outing. Our numbers are depleted, and our identities known. I have decided to cease operations for the time being."  
  
Atris stroked his short white beard thoughtfully, then nodded.   
  
"I see. Am I implicated?"  
  
"No. There is no reason for anyone to suspect a connection between us."  
  
That probably meant that Drake was not here to kill him, Atris realized.  
  
"Very well then," Atris said. "When this blows over…"  
  
An explosion outside cut off the rest of Atris' reply.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Rosa perked up as she heard the shouting from within. She slid her hand under her cloak and around the hilt of her sword. As she watched, the bulky doormen left their post and went ran inside. She heard the clamor of tables being overturned and chairs smashed, the unmistakable sounds of a brawl.  
  
If that wasn't a signal for her to act, nothing was.  
  
She dashed for the abandoned entrance, unsheathing her sword as she ran. A red-haired man in a green cloak came charging out, slamming into her at full tilt. She struggled to keep her balance, falling into a fighting stance in case the man attacked her. He bowed politely and apologized repeatedly, but Rosa ignored him and charged in.  
  
Lanal watched her go, then sheathed the dagger he had subtly drawn. Pulling his cloak around him, he ran off, unopposed.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Ellis knew she was in trouble.  
  
She wondered how Lanal had managed to pull a fast one on her, then shook her head as she dismissed the wasted thought. Throwing her cloak back, she produced her bow and nocked an arrow. Catching a glimpse of Lanal as he fled, she sent a shaft after him. It missed him by inches, thudding into the heavy wooden door.  
  
The arrow had the effect of panicking most of the restaurant's patrons. Demonstrating that nothing in the world runs as quickly as a frightened rich man, they stampeded out, overturning tables in their frenzied rush. The human tidal wave effectively cut Ellis off from Lanal's escape route, making it impossible for her to follow. She grit her teeth in frustration.  
  
The mob also stymied the passage of the establishment's bouncers, who were forced to shove their way against the frightened crowd. Ellis nocked another arrow, aiming at the bouncers. The unarmed men, who had been hired to deal with beggars and vagrants, turned and joined the fleeing customers.  
  
Within a few minutes the dining room was emptied and Rosa was able to make her way in. Ellis walked up to her and grabbed her by the shoulders.  
  
"A red-haired man in a green cloak just ran out. Did you stop him?"  
  
Rosa, realizing just who she had ran into, winced as she realized that she had let the assassin escape. Wordlessly, she shook her head.  
  
Her fists clenched so tightly around her bow that her knuckles turned white, Ellis trembled with impotent rage. Lanal had been so close, but once again he had gotten away. After a few seconds she looked up to Rosa.  
  
"Let's get out of here," she whispered.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Gilliam's guts froze into a chunk of ice as he realized where his chase had taken him. This was his family's mansion. He had been born here, grown up here, and he had never expected to come here again.  
  
He stood there, spellbound, staring at the place until Alberto caught up with him, breaking the trance. As the wizard panted, Gilliam grabbed him by the shoulder and pointed at the painted brick wall around the house.  
  
"Blow that up."  
  
Alberto never needed to hear that order twice. In less then a minute a section of the wall was blasted to rubble. Not even waiting for the stones to cool, Gilliam sprinted into the manor, leaving Alberto behind once more. He did not know why Drake had come here, but he mean to find out!  
  
Gilliam tore across the courtyard and into the mansion, nearly ripping the door off its hinges as he did. He ran through the house, head whipping back and forth as he strained for some sign of Drake's whereabouts. He spotted Evans; the venerable man who had been his family's head butler for longer then Gilliam had been alive. Gilliam ran to him and seized him by the lapels.  
  
"Where is my father?" he demanded, guessing that if anyone knew what was going on it would be him. Evans' eyes went wide.  
  
"Master Gilliam, you're alive! We heard reports…"  
  
Gilliam shook him roughly, having no time for explanations.  
  
"Where is he?" he asked forcefully.  
  
"Master Atris is in the sitting room, going over some documents," the butler said obediently. Gilliam, remembering that the person he was manhandling had changed his diapers as a baby, released his grip. Looking away with shame, he dashed up the stairs to his father's reading room.  
  
When he got there he almost kicked the door down before realizing that it was ajar. Atris and Drake both turned in surprise to regard the intruder, and it was a toss-up whether it was father or son who was more shocked.  
  
Gilliam's eyes darted back and forth between the dragoon and his father. He took in their apparently friendly postures, and in one horrible moment everything clicked together in a sickening realization.  
  
"Father," he said softly, "do you know this man?"  
  
"Son, I…"  
  
Drake watched the scene unfold with calculating eyes. He quickly realized that this must be one of the survivors of the merchant band. He had no idea how the man had tracked him here, but knew that he had to act quickly. Hefting his spear, Drake charged the distracted man. Stopping with his body turned sidewise to Gilliam, he twisted forward as he stabbed at him to add momentum to the thrust.  
  
Gilliam drew his sword by reflex, catching the spear in a parry near the weapon's head. Drake forced the weapons down until they nearly scrapped the floor. Stepping forward, Drake smashed his booted foot onto Gilliam's sword, snapping the weapon in half. As Gilliam stared at the broken blade in shock, Drake thrust in again. Gilliam twisted awkwardly, barely avoiding impalement. Drake swept his spear low, knocking Gilliam's feet out from under him  
  
A war cry from behind drew Drake's attention away from the helpless Gilliam. He spun to see Atris charging him. He had taken his sword off of the mantle and held it clasped between his aged hands. Atris darted forward in a fencing maneuver, trying to thrust the sword's point into Drake's throat. Drake spun his spear in a pinwheel, knocking the sword out of Atris' hands. Reversing the spear's momentum, Drake drove it through Atris' ribs.  
  
The old man gasped, looking at his former ally in shock. He turned his gaze away from the terrible iron mask to see his son still alive and regaining his feet. He started to smile. Drake noticed the expression.  
  
"I will kill him as well," he whispered. Atris' eyes went wide with horror, then his body went limp. Drake ripped his spear free, sending blood spraying. He turned back to Gilliam, towering over the kneeling man. He raised his spear once more for the kill.  
  
Alberto charged in. Pointing his rod at Drake, he babbled an arcane chant. An azure blast of electricity erupted from the rod. Drake hurled himself to the side with less then a second to spare. The lightning blasted a hole clear through to the first floor. Drake, knowing better then to fight a wizard in such close quarters, crouched to jump. He caught Gilliam's eyes.  
  
"So your friend saved you," he spat. "Tell me, is it a blessing or a curse?"  
  
That said, he leapt, smashing through the room's large window. Glass shards went flying everywhere, and with that, Drake was gone, leaving only suffering behind.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Evans' head jerked towards the upstairs room as he heard the commotion there. He stood at the foot of the stairs, mentally debating whether he should go up alone or fetch the house guards. Finally, he heard a heart-wrenching scream echo through the house. It was a scream of infinite sorrow.  
  
After several moments, it stopped. Collecting himself, Evans forced himself to start up the stairs. Before he went more then a few steps, the door flung open. Gilliam walked out, a naked sword clutched downwards in his right hand. Evans recognized it as the one that had sat on the wall Master Atris' office.   
  
Gilliam's face was unreadable as solid stone. His eyes were red, but dry. The hand that held the sword trembled slightly in repressed emotion. Evans started to ask what had happened, but before he could Gilliam met his eyes.  
  
"Call for a priest. My father is dead," he said mechanically.  
  
Gilliam walked past him, heading for the door. Evans gathered his nerve.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
Gilliam stopped and turned to regard him, an animalistic rage distorting his features.  
  
"I'm going to kill the man that did it."  
  
Gilliam walked out. No one tried to stop him.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
It was a silent group that met in the small room they had rented in the slums that evening. Gilliam simply sat there, mentally replaying the scene over and over, trying to find a way he would have changed it. Ellis seethed with anger over Lanal's escape, and Rosa stood off to the side, ashamed of herself for allowing him to flee. Hanlon was silent, and Katoi seemed to recognize his captors' desire for quiet. Even Alberto, sensing the atmosphere, had left, saying that he had business to attend to.  
  
Finally, Ellis spoke.  
  
"Rosa and I are now wanted for killing a nobleman."  
  
Gilliam raised his head and looked at her."  
  
"So am I."  
  
After a long, uncomfortable silence, Rosa spoke.   
  
"What do we do now?"  
  
Gilliam rose, a dark fire in his eyes.  
  
"We go to their hideout. And we kill them."  
  
He looked at the two women.   
  
"Any objections?"  
  
There were none. 


	9. The Gates of Hell

Chapter Nine  
  
The Gates of Hell  
  
Chell came to a halt. Although he knew that speech was unnecessary, he addressed his undead minions aloud.  
  
"Wait."  
  
Closing his eyes, he vanished, and reappeared a short distance away from the place they had taken as their fortress.  
  
It was an up thrust portion of the forest, a hill coming close to fifty feet high. It was misshapen, shifting randomly from flat surfaces to steep inclines. It looked as though a giant hand had grabbed it and squeezed it like a lump of clay. Boulders jutted out at odd angles, and scattered openings led to a small cave complex within.  
  
Chell remembered the fight to wrest the place from the small goblin tribe that had held it, remembered how he and Lanal had acted as forerunners, slipping into the cavern and killing goblins in their sleep. He remembered how they had been forced to flee as the goblins awoke and banded together against them. He remembered running out of the place with a salivating goblin less then a foot behind him.  
  
Right into Drake's waiting troops.  
  
It had been a massacre, the ambushing troops falling on the blood-crazed goblins before they even realized they were under attack.  
  
He dismissed the pleasant memories and returned his attention to the current situation. He stepped out from amid the trees, startling the sentries, who immediately brought their weapons to bear.  
  
The weapons went back down when they saw who he was. But their fear increased.  
  
"Take me to Marcello."  
  
They gulped, then complied.  
  
Soon Chell was inside, the sole remaining bandit officer standing before him. Marcello fidgeted nervously, making a few, futile attempts to engage Chell in conversation. Finally, Chell broke the silence.  
  
"We suffered severe casualties on our last raid. The entire group was slaughtered."  
  
Marcello started at him in shock, then began to stammer a reply. Chell let him babble on for awhile, not even bothering to listen to what the man was saying, then cut him off.  
  
"Fortunately, that is not as much of a problem as you would think. I've come to realize something Marcello. The living make poor soldiers, for they fear death. But what could the dead have to fear?"  
  
"What do you mean sir?"  
  
Chell simply smiled, waiting patiently. After a moment, a hideous scream reverberated from outside. Marcello, a veteran of many brutal battles and atrocities, shuddered, and even Chell was impressed. He had never heard such sheer terror.  
  
Chell's hands snapped out from his sleeves, wrapping themselves around Marcello's throat in a bony vise. With unnatural strength Chell lifted him from the ground, savoring the man's expression of horror as his air was cut off. Chell laughed at him.  
  
"Do you see?" he hissed. "Do you see how the living fear the dead?"  
  
Within minutes, it was all over. Every man there was dead.  
  
Chell had his minions bring the mutilated corpses together into one large pile. He looked at the masks of horror their dead faces were twisted into without an ounce of guilt or compassion, not caring in the least that he had lived and fought beside these people. Focusing his will, he began an unholy chant. A blackness as dark as the fires of Hell flickered into existence around his hands. Raising his hands, he lifted his palms upward as if in benediction. Bits of dark flame broke off and floated away, each one finding a body. The vile spirits sank into the fresh corpses, and one by one they twitched and rose to horrifying life.  
  
Chell watched his new abominations with macabre satisfaction, then turned and walked inside. He grinned wickedly as he wondered how Drake and Lanal would react.  
  
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As the full moon rose high above them, they were finally forced to halt and make camp for the night. After unsaddling the chocobos Alberto had gotten them (no one dared ask how) they rolled out their bedrolls and lit a small fire. After his watch ended and Rosa's began Gilliam slipped off into the forest, alone with his thoughts.  
  
He heard a sound from overhead. A familiar tune was being hummed. Gilliam looked up to see Ellis siting in the branches. She looked down at him.  
  
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked. Gilliam shook his head.  
  
"Mind if I join you?" he asked. She nodded and he scrambled up to take a seat beside her. They sat there in uncomfortable silence for several long moments, staring up at the full moon. Finally, Gilliam spoke.  
  
"I need to ask you something."  
  
Ellis turned her head sideways towards him. "Go ahead." Gilliam closed his eyes.  
  
I keep seeing it Ellis. I keep seeing Drake kill my father, over and over. I can't sleep, I can't eat, it's driving me insane."  
  
He looked at her, tears slipping from his eyes, his body trembling.  
  
"I need to know how you do it. How do you stop the pain? He did the same to your family; I need you to tell me how you did it. How do you stop seeing it?"  
  
He looked at her desperately, tears streaming down his face.  
  
"You kill yourself."  
  
Gilliam stared at her in shock.  
  
"Part of yourself anyway. You destroy the part of your heart that bleeds, that cries, that mourns. You kill the part of yourself that feels pain, and you never let yourself feel anything again. You forget about the past, and live only in the moment. That's how you stop it Gilliam. You die."  
  
Gilliam looked into her eyes, then nodded. Forcing his features straight, he wiped the tears away.  
  
"Thank you. I'll go now."  
  
He started to jump down, but Ellis grabbed his arm.  
  
"No," she whispered. "Please, don't go."  
  
Gilliam eased back and put his arm around her. She leaned against his shoulder, and they looked up at the full moon once more.  
  
In silence.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Hanlon jerked as he came awake. Shock blasted away sleepiness as he realized that he had fallen asleep on his watch. He looked up at the sky, trying to gauge how long he had been out by the moon's position. The trees made it difficult to see, but he estimated it had been less then a hour.  
  
He looked to the bedrolls. Katoi was gone from the place that he has been curled up. Wondering what the creature was up to, he sprang to his feet. He caught the goblin's voice. Silently, he crept through the forest towards it. Crouching behind a bush, he spied the reluctant guide standing with Alberto. The two seemed to be in an animated conversation.  
  
"But if you kill them with magic, how can you enjoy it?" Katoi said in its own language. "How can you do so without the heat of their blood on your hands and mouth, the feel of their bones snapping? What about the screams, the blood spray?!"  
  
Alberto replied in the same tongue.  
  
"It's a loss, but it's worth it! Those things may be good, but seeing them burn is better!"  
  
Katoi seemed to consider this for a moment, but still seemed doubtful.  
  
"But then how do you eat their hearts?"  
  
The two seemed to be hitting it off wonderfully. Hanlon listened in amazement as the conversation continued along that vein. Finally, he shook his head and went back to his post. He was starting to understand why these people were so nervous about the mage!  
  
Oblivious to Hanlon's spying, the two fast friends began to discuss the best way to kill Drake. Katoi was unsure how to get past the armor, but Alberto assured him it would not be a problem.  
  
"One lightning bolt," he promised. "It works even better on armor. He'll fry in his armor like bacon on a grill!"  
  
Alberto had to stop and explain that last bit to the primitive goblin, who had always eaten his food raw. Once he understood the concept he nodded and conceded that, in this one situation, Alberto's way was better. Feeling a rare sense of camaraderie, Alberto clapped the scrawny creature on the back. Once again, Alberto decided that being assigned to Ramza's command was the best thing that had ever happened to him.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Drake came to an abrupt halt.   
  
It was evening, and they had finally made it home.  
  
Something was wrong though. Drake wasn't sure what at first, but his instincts, refined by decades of combat, shouted that something was wrong. Then it hit him. There was a familiar, coppery smell in the air.  
  
Blood.  
  
Lanal, oblivious to the situation, continued his endless chatter, nearly smashing into Drake as he abruptly stopped. Drake had long-ago given up any hope of ever getting him to shut up and did his best to simply ignore his too valuable to kill lieutenant's annoying voice.   
  
Lanal, realizing that Drake had noticed something, mercifully fell silent as he edged away from the dragoon. Fingering his concealed dagger's hilt, he scanned the area for threats. He caught the smell of blood as well, and realized what had caught Drake's attention.   
  
After half a minute, no threat presented itself. Wordlessly, Drake motioned forward. Lanal, having fought beside the canny dragoon for many years, understood the gesture perfectly. Crouching to reduce his profile, he slipped ahead, as silent as a snake.   
  
Several minutes passed before Lanal returned, so stealthily that even Drake's hyper-alert senses failed to notice him. Lanal spoke in a whisper, with an economy of words that was the complete opposite of his normally loquacious self.  
  
"The sentries are dead. No sign of what killed them. The base sounds deserted, but I did not go in."  
  
Drake nodded. Hefting his spear, he strode ahead. Not bothering to worry about noise, he trampled over the underbrush. As he walked to the small main entrance, he saw the sentries sprawled out on the ground. Fearlessly, he strode into his domain.  
  
They walked the corridors in silence, finding dead bodies every now and then. A terrified "Wark!" caught their attention. Taking a turn, they entered the stables, where the handful of chocobos that had not been ridden into their last battle were stabled.   
  
They were wild with fear, eyes wide with panic. They warked constantly in berserk terror, smashing their heavy claws against the solid wooden fence that held them caged.  
  
Drake and Lanal looked at the terrified creatures, the only things Chell had not yet killed yet, with apprehension. Whatever it was that had so frightened them would likely be coming for them next. Drake turned and walked out first, grimly determined to find whatever it was that had invaded his stronghold.   
  
As they rounded a corner, they found Chell standing there. He waved his hand in a gesture of greeting. Lanal gawked at the unnatural sight, and even Drake found himself unnerved. Gathering his calm, Drake addressed Chell.  
  
"I assume that this is you handiwork."   
  
It was not a question. Drake had little doubt that his old comrade was behind this.  
  
"Indeed. Do you remember how I said I knew a way to strengthen our forces? Well, I have."  
  
Lanal looked about doubtfully.   
  
"You have an unorthodox way of doing so," he commented fliply.  
  
Chell smiled.  
  
"Look behind you."  
  
Lanal did just that, and gasped in horror as he saw the bodies they had passed on the way in shambling towards them. Drake lifted his spear and fell into a fighting posture as he saw still more coming from behind Chell. Grimly, Drake realized just how badly Chell had outmaneuvered him. They were surrounded, by undead creatures that would not fear his lance or Lanal's daggers and tricks. The low ceiling denied him the advantage of maneuverability, and he doubted he would even be able to move fast enough to take revenge on Chell before the wizard teleported away.  
  
The necromancer smiled.  
  
"Come," he invited, "let us discuss our new arrangement."  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Dusk was falling as the party reached the bandits' stronghold. They had left the chocobos behind in order to move quietly through the dense foliage. Katoi came to a stop. He turned to the others, eyes bright at the prospect of vengeance.  
  
"We're here. Past these trees is my clan's lair."  
  
"You are sure you gave us a full description of the layout?" Hanlon asked for the fifteenth time. Katoi gave him an annoyed snarl. Hanlon nodded.  
  
"I'm sure you all remember the plan, but let's go over it one last time. Rosa, Alberto, Katoi, the three of you will enter through the main entrance. Ellis, you trail behind them and pick off anyone that tries to catch them from behind."  
  
He turned to Gilliam.  
  
"While they draw their attention to the main entrance, you and I will go around the side and scale the hill. We'll slip in through one of the side entrances and meet the others inside. With luck, we'll catch them from both sides before they realize they're under attack."  
  
The old man looked at each one of them, meeting their eyes.  
  
"You realize that we could be overwhelmed. I'm only guessing that Drake brought most of his men out with him. If we gamble wrong, if he has a sizable force with him, we will all be slaughtered."  
  
He let the words hang in the air. Ellis broke the silence.  
  
"Life's a bitch and then you die."  
  
That drew a startled laugh from everyone. They found themselves nodding in agreement. Hanlon smiled.  
  
"Then let's go."  
  
  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Chell sat in utter darkness, legs crossed, eyes closed. The darkness was more then an external gloom. Falling into his meditation, Chell sent his mind probing into that darkness, seeking answers, trying to make sense of the power he had seen on the other side of death.   
  
In a deep trance, Chell sensed a being of awesome, titanic power. Once he would have trembled, but somehow he knew that the fiendish creature meant him no harm. A dark voice, resonating with power, echoed through his mind.  
  
-Your enemies come. Be ready.-   
  
Chell's eyes flew open. He rose, telepathically commanding his undead servants to take positions for battle. Forming a mental map of the fortress, he moved his soldiers like pawns on a chessboard, carefully calculating the best places to station them.  
  
As he did, he turned his thoughts to the place where Drake and Lanal waited. It was time to move his rook and knight.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Drake and Lanal watched through the open doorway as the zombies that had been acting as their jailors shambled away. They were in Drake's private quarters. Chell had herded them there and stationed a host of zombies in front of the only exit. Drake had realized that even he would stand no chance of fighting his way through the unfeeling sentinels, and so he waited, furious, wondering what Chell would do next.  
  
In a crackle of magic, Chell was there, standing in the doorway.  
  
"The people we fought at the caravan have come. Drake, head out the upper passages and attack them from above. Lanal, go down below and slow their advance. Do not worry about our soldiers, they will not trouble you."  
  
With that, he vanished.  
  
Drake and Lanal looked at each other. Lanal shrugged.   
  
"Notice how he said 'our soldiers?"  
  
Drake had. Perhaps this would work out for them after all.  
  
Lanal sprinted off, Drake marched in the opposite direction. What choice did they have but to obey?  
  
  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Rosa's skin crawled as they walked past the dead sentries. Something was wrong with this place, something about the very air. The stench of death hung heavily over the place, and even Alberto retched slightly as they walked in. Something was wrong.  
  
They came to a crossroads with three passages, two leading upwards, the other down. The intersection was littered with bodies. Rosa started to consult Katoi for directions, but before she could the corpses rose up and lunged at them!  
  
Horrified, Rosa, managed to draw her sword and slash it deep into the throat of nearest zombie, cleaving all the way through to its spine. A living man would have died, but the undead creature barely even noticed the awful wound. Reaching past her sword, it seized Rosa's throat in an unnaturally strong grip. It shoved forward, forcing her down under its weight.  
  
Alberto fared better. Lifting his staff, he fired off a lightning bolt that sent chunks of zombie flesh splattering against the walls.  
  
Katoi wasted no time leaping atop one of them, knocking it to the ground with the force of his charge. Grabbing it by the chin, Katoi twisted and pulled, snapping its neck all the way around with a bone-breaking crack. Katoi let out a savage howl of victory.  
  
But the zombie did not even feel it. Its head flopping and turned backward it still managed to wrap its arms around Katoi in a crushing bear hug.  
  
Katoi squirmed free. Shoving his weight forward, the goblin did a handstand, landing feet first atop the zombie's head. Its skull smashed under the impact, and Katoi reveled in the sensation of its brain squishing amid his bare toes.   
  
The creature still fought on. Katoi backed away incredulously, his innate ferocity failing him for the first time in his short and violent life. It was only the second time he had ever felt afraid of an opponent.  
  
Alberto charged another lightning bolt, but his arm was jerked up as a zombie grabbed him from behind. The blast discharged into the ceiling, bring stone crashing down on them all.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Hanlon grunted as he climbed the sheer stretch of the jagged hillside. Gilliam was close behind him, youthful energy struggling to keep pace with Hanlon's practiced skill. Not daring to remove a hand to wipe his brow, Hanlon looked up.  
  
Drake was standing on the ledge above.  
  
Hanlon looked down to Gilliam.  
  
"Kid?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
That said, Hanlon kicked down at Gilliam, sending the young swordsman plummeting down. Hanlon knew they were close enough to the ground that the boy would be alright. With a burst of energy he hadn't known he had in him, Hanlon scrambled up the rest of the way.  
  
Drake watched him as he did, making no move to attack him. As Hanlon stood, Drake spoke.  
  
"I have realized that I know you. You fought as a mercenary for the nobles during the war. You fought beside me many times, didn't you?"  
  
"Yes," Hanlon replied.  
  
"You were every bit as vicious as I was, weren't you?"   
  
When Hanlon made no move to reply, Drake continued.  
  
"You were a murder. You cared for nothing about nonsense such as honor or mercy. You were a beast, and no amount of blood could satisfy you."  
  
"Shut up!" Hanlon shouted. Drake snorted.  
  
"You're no better then I am."  
  
Hanlon charged the dragoon.  
  
"This is for every person I murdered!"  
  
Drake readied his spear to meet him.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Ellis stumbled as Alberto's magic rocked the fortress. Scrapping her knees painfully against the stone floor, she barely managed to avoid falling flat on her face.  
  
Dust choked her as she regained her footing. Two of the passages had been sealed off by the rock fall. Seeing no other options, she walked up the remaining passage.  
  
As she did, Lanal entered from the other side. Both froze in shock.  
  
Faster then she would have thought possible, Ellis aimed and fired. The arrow razored across the side of his neck as he turned and fled. Cursing, Ellis gave chase.  
  
Lanal led her through a maze of passages, zigzagging erratically in an attempt to throw her of the trail. Ellis clung to him doggedly, never letting up. Finally, she saw moonlight drifting in from the passage Lanal had turned down. He had led her outside. Blind with hatred, Ellis charged after him.  
  
As she exited Lanal sprang at her from the side, dagger gleaming in the bright moonlight. She swung her bow like a club in a desperate attempt to block. Clenching her fist, she slammed a haymaker into his midsection.  
  
Lanal staggered towards the edge of the ledge, gasping for breath. Wasting no time, Ellis drew another arrow, pulled it and released.  
  
Nothing happened. Ellis slowly looked at her bow. Lanal had slashed the string. She looked at him.  
  
Regaining his breath, Lanal straightened. He smiled apologetically at her, then cocked his dagger hand back to throw.  
  
Dropping her useless bow, Ellis waited defenselessly for the killing shot.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
"Kai!"  
  
Hanlon came at Drake in a wild rush, amazingly fast. Drake, caught off guard by the speed of the attack, swung his spear in a horizontal block. Hanlon grabbed the shaft with both hands. Not slowing a bit, he flipped right over Drake's head. Spinning even before he hit the ground, Hanlon smashed two iron blows into the back of Drake's armored skull. As Drake turned, Hanlon leapt into a spinning kick that caught Drake square in the side of the face. The dragoon went crashing to the ground, pencil-rolling to absorb the impact. His spear went clattering from his hands.  
  
As he tried to stand, Hanlon charged his again. His spear lost, Drake caught Hanlon by the shirt and fell back, sending the old man flying. Retrieving his spear, Drake stood and reexamined his enemy.  
  
The old man's fighting style was completely different from the way he had fought in their last encounter. His attacks were frenzied, savage, almost animalistic. In fact, he was fighting more like the vicious mercenary Drake remembered from the war. Drake knew he was facing a deadly enemy, but he had not survived this long without a few tricks up his sleeve.  
  
"Do you remember that village on the border, just three years before the end of the war?" he taunted. "Do you remember what we did there? Do you remember the children? Surely you remember the children!"  
  
Predictably, Hanlon charged, snarling with rage. Drake feinted with a straightforward spear thrust. As Hanlon slipped past the tip of the weapon, Drake triggered a hidden catch in his right gauntlet. A three foot long blade slid out. Stepping forward, Drake removed one hand from the spear and stabbed the blade between Hanlon's ribs, skewering him with his own momentum. Eyes wide, Hanlon looked down at the mortal wound, then up into the eye slits of Drake's helmet.  
  
"You are just like me," Drake told him. "Only weak."  
  
He pulled the bloody blade back out. It retracted back into his gauntlet. Hanlon staggered, then fell back. Drake leapt away, leaving him to die alone.  
  
Gilliam climbed onto the ledge just in time to see it happen. He ran to Hanlon, catching him before he hit the ground. Lowering him gently to the ground, Gilliam started to reach for a bandage. Hanlon grabbed his arm and shook his head. It would do no good, his wound was too severe.  
  
"Gilliam, listen to me. I did more then just fight beside Drake during the war."  
  
"Don't talk," Gilliam hushed. Hanlon ignored him.  
  
"I killed many people, soldiers, civilians, I didn't care. Murder, rape, anything you can accuse him of I did as well. I'm just as guilty as they are. Forgive me…"  
  
His chest rattling with his last breath, Hanlon shuddered and died. Gilliam held him close.  
  
Gilliam looked up, seeing Drake at the summit. Rising to his feet, he began to climb.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Alberto and Katoi coughed as the dust from the cave in began to clear. They looked at the sealed passage, amazed at their good fortune. They had come within mere feet of being buried alive.  
  
"Welcome."  
  
They turned to see Chell standing patiently, waiting.  
  
"I believe we have unfinished business," he said calmly, casting a venomous glare at Alberto. Katoi, caring nothing for the byplay, flung himself at the wizard.  
  
Chell raised his left hand, black energy crackling around it.  
  
"Strip aside vanity and show reality!"  
  
A line of pure destructive energy pulsed out from his hand, striking Katoi in midair. The blast tore right through him, burning through his chest and sending the diminutive creature flying. He slammed into Alberto. The mage caught him. The goblin spasmed, then went limp in the wizard's arms.  
  
For the first time in his life, Alberto felt a stab of grief. Trembling with rage, he lowered his friend to the ground and stood. Sparks danced in his eyes, and in his mind he heard Lich calling out to him once more.  
  
This time, he accepted.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
  
  
As the oxygen to her brain was cut off, Rosa's vision went dark. As the world began to fade, she felt a familiar presence enfold her.  
  
Xavier…  
  
Light banished the darkness. Radiance began to flare between her fingers as she grappled with the undead creature, scorching the creature's flesh. It fell back, screeching in agony. Scooping her sword up, she fell on it in a frenzy, hacking at it over and over, brutally chopping the hideous thing to pieces.  
  
When she was done, she turned to the sole remaining exit. A dozen zombies blocked her path.  
  
There was no way she could escape. 


	10. Was it Worth it?

Chapter Ten  
  
Was it worth it?  
  
The hill leveled out into a plateau at the summit. The flat ground, made of bare stone, was about ten feet across, each side dropping off into a steep cliff. As Gilliam clambered up Drake was standing at the other side with his back turned, looking over the landscape below. Knowing better then to hope the alert dragoon had not noticed him, Gilliam spoke.  
  
"You killed my father."  
  
Drake did not bother to turn.  
  
"That hardly makes you unique."  
  
Gilliam drew his father's sword slowly, the metal hissing against the leather sheath. He fell into a fighting stance, poised to attack.  
  
"You killed Hanlon, you killed Ellis' parents."  
  
Drake did turn to regard him then.  
  
"Killed whose parents?  
  
The wind picked up, blowing grit into Gilliam's eyes.  
  
"Tell me," he asked, trembling with repressed anger, "how many people have you murdered?"  
  
Drake thought for a moment.  
  
"One hundred and seventeen."  
  
Gilliam was stunned, both by the claim and the callous way Drake had said it. The dragoon continued.  
  
"Counting soldiers as well as civilians, not that there is any real difference. And your band, of course."  
  
"Why? Why this, why banditry? Any army would have been happy to hire you. Why resort to raiding merchant bands?" Drake snorted.  
  
"Oh, they did. Your nobles had no qualms about hiring us to fight their battles during the war. That was when I met your father. He wasn't a member of the nobility back then, at the time he was just a peddler that had been pressed into service."  
  
Drake began to walk towards Gilliam as he spoke.  
  
"After the war, we became inconvenient. Oh, they had known all along what we did and how we fought, and they approved, all of them. Dycedarg, Larg, Goltania, they all knew, and they were happy to have us do the dirty work. How do you think they became heroes? They fought the clean battles and had us handle the real work."  
  
But once the war was over they had to open their eyes and be outraged. After all, they had no idea what we "mavericks" had been up to."  
  
Drake came to a halt in the middle of the field.  
  
"That's when we went to work for your father. He was an ambitious man. He'd received a minor title after stopping an assassination attempt on Zalbag, but no lands or money. He had a small trading business, but he couldn't compete with his larger rivals. So he turned to us."  
  
Drake gestured towards the forest below with his left hand.  
  
"So we waylaid his rivals shipping. No one suspected a connection, it's a dangerous business and people are always being lost. We even went after his merchants now and then, just to avoid suspicion. Between him and Lanal's spying, it was child's play."  
  
Gilliam had been silent throughout Drake's speech. Now, he spoke.  
  
"Even if he was not the man I thought he was, he was still my father. You will pay for his murder!"  
  
Gilliam charged. Drake rushed to meet him.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Bare hands hanging at her side, Ellis met Lanal's eyes with a glare of pure hatred. Knowing that there was no way she could reach him or escape before he cut her down, she stood still and asked a question.  
  
"Tell me, do you remember a small groups of traveling performers you helped massacre ten years ago?  
  
Lanal thought for a moment, then nodded. "Why yes. Were you connected to them somehow?"  
  
"I was only ten years old when I watched the Touten murder them. Now tell me, why? Why did my family have to die?"  
  
Lanal shrugged.  
  
"I suspected that a member of your troop was a spy."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And what? That's all."  
  
"You butchered dozens of innocent people just because you suspected one man?!" she demanded incredulously. Lanal shrugged again.  
  
"I wanted to be on the safe side. Besides. We had a reputation to maintain. Now…"  
  
Lanal's hand darted like a snake. The dagger was a silver blur as it flew at her. Lightning quick, Ellis' hand shot out and caught it in midair. With the dexterity of a trained juggler she tossed it up in the air, then snatched it as it came down and hurled it at Lanal.  
  
Her aim was perfect. The dagger caught him square in the throat. He staggered back and looked at her, stunned by the reversal. Before her eyes, the friendly façade slipped away, and his face twisted into a mask of bestial hatred.  
  
He made a choking sound, then collapsed. For once, Lanal had nothing to say.  
  
Ellis stood over his body and looked at him, wondering what she should feel. She felt no pleasure from killing him, and it did not diminish the pain of losing her family in the slightest. But if nothing else, she had killed an evil man, and finally slain one of the figures that had haunted her nightmares for a decade. Her family might not rest any easier, but she would.   
  
She pulled a spare bowstring out of her belt pouch. With practiced ease, she strung it, then turned back to the cave. Lanal was not the only monster here.  
  
  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Gilliam went into a spin as he came close to Drake. Falling into a crouch, he ducked under Drake's spear by inches. Coming into a full circle, he hacked his sword into the joint at Drake's knees, hoping his momentum would let him cut through. His sword clanged uselessly off of the heavy armor, and the sword went out wide. Undaunted, Gilliam changed tactics. Pointing the sword upwards, he leapt to his feet, hoping to drive the weapon through Drake's chin. Drake kicked him square in the midsection, his booted foot blasting the air from Gilliam's lungs and sending him tumbling. Gilliam came to a halt inches from the edge. As he rose unsteadily, Drake spoke.  
  
"And tell me, where is the rest of your group? I know there are at least three more."  
  
Gilliam smiled grimly.  
  
"They're below, dealing with the rest of your murderers. Tell me, how many of your men do you have left?"  
  
Drake chuckled.  
  
"All of them. Chell brought reinforcements."  
  
Seeing the shocked look on Gilliam's face, he continued.  
  
"Did you think there would only be a few of us? Then you are wrong. You have led your friends to their deaths. They will be overwhelmed by an army in the tunnels. They will die in the darkness, and there is nothing you can do about it."  
  
Screaming in denial, Gilliam charged Drake again, slashing wildly. Drake was caught off guard by the flurry of blows and was forced to backpedal. As efficient as a machine, Drake blocked every attack. Hoping to use Gilliam's rage against him, Drake taunted him, hoping to goad him into making a mistake.  
  
"You should know that I had no intention of killing your father. If you hadn't come, he would still be alive."  
  
Outraged, Gilliam speed up his attacks even further; ignoring defense and seeming to come at Drake from everywhere at once. As Drake held his spear in a horizontal block Gilliam chopped down in an overhead swing, hoping to cleave the wooden shaft in two.  
  
A sliver of the rock hard wood was chipped off, but nothing more. Gilliam's sword sprang back, his arms going numb from the blow. Drake's mailed fist caught him in an uppercut to the jaw. Grabbing Gilliam's wrist, Drake's armored fingers twisted cruelly. The sword fell from Gilliam's nerveless hand.  
  
A blow to the side of the head sent Gilliam sprawling to the ground, the world spinning. Drake towered over him, his spear poised for the killing thrust. Gilliam lay helplessly, knowing that this time there was no one to save him.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Rosa watched in the dim light of the torches that lined the passage as the zombies shambled towards her, eyes glowing red with an infernal light. Drool fell from their mouths as the perverse creatures sensed her still living flesh, and their hands raked the air as they reached for her.  
  
There were at least a dozen of them, too many to try to slip past in the narrow corridor. Slowly, Rosa raised her dust covered right hand up where they could see it.  
  
A crystal ring gleamed crimson in the torchlight.  
  
A red aura flared into existence around her. As the closest zombie shambled with a couple of feet of her she snapped her hand down and drew her sword. She slashed it upward, decapitating the undead thing in one blow. Holding her sword in both hands, she brought it down in an overhead slash, cleaving into its chest and splitting its spine.  
  
It took less time then a blink of Rosa's eyes.  
  
It collapsed with a groan, a shadowy, smokelike mist rising up from it. A chill swept over Rosa as it brushed her, along with a feeling of absolute hatred, but then it was gone.  
  
The other zombies shambled towards her. Lightning-quick, she swiveled towards them and charged.  
  
She ducked under the swinging arms of the first one, aiming a spinning cut that slashed off its right leg at the knee. As it toppled Rosa leapt onto the prone creature, crushing its skull like a melon under her boots. She thrust forward as she did, stabbing another one right between the eyes, then fell into a roll as three more lunged at her.  
  
Heart beating wildly, she went at the trio in a frenzy, stabbing and slashing like a sword wielding whirlwind. They went down, blacken blood oozing out of amputated limbs and demonic mist filling the corridor. Her sword black with gore, Rosa turned to the remaining six, which had formed a semi-circle around her.  
  
The clumsy creatures simply could not keep up with her magically enhanced speed. As the last one returned to true death, Rosa fell against the wall and slid down it to the ground, panting with exhaustion. The combined strain of the battle and the demands of the ring's magic left her trembling helplessly on the stone. The red aura faded and died.  
  
After several minutes, she managed to rise. Still breathing heavily, she staggered down the passage, hand pressed against the wall for support.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
For the first time in his insane life, Alberto felt grief.  
  
His mind reeled at the realization that Katoi was dead. That should not have happened, Katoi should not have died, Katoi should have eaten Chell's heart!  
  
An anger as strong and deep as his sorrow swept through Alberto. Beyond rage, it was as cold and dark as an unlit cavern. In the back of Alberto's mind, a seal broke. Diabolical power began to race through his body, joining with and amplifying his hatred. He met Chell's eyes with a glare more suited to a demon's face then a man's. He said nothing, not bothering with curses or shouts of anger. The look in his eyes conveyed his feelings perfectly.  
  
Chell started to laugh, but the sheer intensity of Alberto's expression killed his smug amusement. He sensed power gathering around his enemy, a feeling like a thunderstorm about to break in the narrow tunnel.  
  
An aura formed around Alberto, dark even in the subterranean gloom. Alberto cupped his hands together, and crackling energy began to gather in his palms. Chell realized that this was the same sort of power he himself had wielded against the goblin.   
  
In a hollow, emotionless voice Alberto chanted a grim dirge, calling out to Lich, the connection completed at last. The black magic built to a climax.  
  
Chell screamed.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
As Drake stood over him, the world seemed to slow down to Gilliam. He realized then his folly in presuming to challenge the incredible warrior. The man was simply too strong, too skilled, there was no way he could ever hope to defeat him. In his heart, Gilliam knew he was going to die.  
  
His vision swam out of focus, taking Drake's form away. He thought about them, Ramza, Alberto, Rosa, Ellis... Silently, he bade them farewell, apologizing that he had failed them. Maybe they would succeed where he had failed. Gilliam started to relax...  
  
Then a new thought shot through him. No, they would not succeed. Drake would go after them next, would hunt them down and kill them one by one. In his mind's eye, he saw Ellis with a spear through her chest, Drake looming over her.  
  
He could not let that happen.  
  
To Hell with his own life, he would not let that happen!  
  
His vision cleared. Gilliam focused on Drake's spear.  
  
Gathering all of his strength for one last effort, Gilliam leapt at Drake. Simultaneously, Drake ran him through. The spear went right through him, entering through his gut and exiting out of his lower back. The pain was indescribable. Their eyes met.  
  
"Tell me, was it worth it?" Drake whispered. "You would have lived if you had walked away, but you chose to follow me. Tell me, as you die, were your precious morals worth it?"  
  
For a moment, Gilliam's resolve wavered. Then the image of Ellis dead at Drake's hands flashed through his mind again, and his will hardened like steel. Eyes blazing, he met Drake's challenge.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Grabbing Drake's spear with both hands, Gilliam wrenched it away from him. With superhuman determination, he shoved the spear all the way through his body, then snapped it over his knee with a sudden burst of strength. As Drake's tried to come up with a response, Gilliam hurled himself at him, shoving him towards the nearby edge of the plateau. Caught off-guard, Drake stumbled back, coming to a stop inches away from a steep drop. He tried to force Gilliam back, but Gilliam held on with unbelievable tenacity.  
  
Extending his gauntlet blade, Drake drew his arm back for a decapitating swing at Gilliam's head. Gilliam caught his wrist in mid-swing. Desperately, the two grappled, Gilliam actually smiling as he pressed his suicidal attack. For the first time in decades, Drake was truly afraid for his life. He shouted something, but Gilliam ignored him and concentrated on his attempts to struggle free. His lower body was numb, but he pressed on.  
  
Drake was forced back a step. Then two.  
  
As they stood on the precipice, the earth beneath them began to tremble as the tremendous magical forces battling below rocked the very foundations of the fortress. With one last surge of strength, Gilliam knocked them both over.  
  
They were thrown apart as they bounced off the first level surface, bones crunching as they hit. Drake scrambled desperately for a handhold against the sheer cliff, trying to slow his fall. An avalanche of rock, shaken free by the unnatural earthquake, caught him and carried him down.   
  
Beyond pain, Gilliam fell free. Then he hit the ground.   
  
Hard.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Ellis was on full alert as she made her way through the dimly lit tunnels, every sense at its peak. Her bow was in her hand and at the ready, and she had an arrow prepared.  
  
Even so, she was still caught off-guard as she rounded a corner and nearly ran square into four zombies.  
  
Quick as a cat, she blasted the arrow into the chest of the closest one. It staggered slightly from the impact of the point-blank shot, but was otherwise unfazed. It grabbed her, mouth drooling as it closed in to bite off a chunk of her flesh. Ellis struggled wildly to throw it off, almost retching from the stench. But it was too strong, unnaturally strong, and she could not break its grip.  
  
Suddenly its head went flying off. Ellis shoved it off of her and stumbled back. A red blur was tearing the goblins apart. Even as she watched the last one was hacked apart. The ruby light vanished, and Rosa fell to her knees in exhaustion, chest heaving. She held a hand to her chest as her heart beat for hard she thought it would burst through her ribs.  
  
Ellis approached her tentatively.  
  
"Rosa?"  
  
The stone beneath their feet began to shake, throwing Ellis to the ground beside Rosa. She rolled like a tumbler to absorb the impact, coming to a stop in a crouch. She shielded her head as stones fell from the ceiling. The earthquake continued; she turned to Rosa.  
  
"We have to go!"  
  
Ellis stood, but Rosa still knelt there, gasping for breath. Ellis grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet.  
  
"Hurry!"  
  
Dragging Rosa behind her, Ellis ran blindly through the twisting passageways. Finally she saw light ahead. She had managed to backtrack to the entrance. They made it out just in time, the passage caved in behind them.  
  
They looked up to see a beam of black energy shooting up into the sky from within the mound. Something exploded, and the rocks began to fall as the entire cave complex collapsed in on itself.  
  
After it was over, the women looked at each other. They both spoke at once.  
  
"Alberto."  
  
Ellis saw a body on the ground several feet away. Recognizing it, she gasped and ran to Gilliam, kneeling beside him. As soon as she saw the horrific injuries he had sustained, she knew there was nothing she could do. The spear wound was only the beginning, his limbs where broken and his head was at an odd angle, as though his spine had been snapped.  
  
Hot tears welled in her eyes as she looked at him. Impossibly, Gilliam's eyes flew open. He saw her and smiled.  
  
"Your… safe. I got him Ellis, I got him."  
  
"Gilliam!"  
  
Gilliam's eyes closed. He was dead.  
  
Ellis stared at him, broken.  
  
"I love you," she whispered.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
  
  
Recovered enough to stand, Rosa watched on wobbly legs as Ellis wept. She also grieved for her friend, but she knew that Ellis's pain was far deeper. The bond between the two had grown quietly, but its depth was obvious to anyone who knew them. She started towards her, meaning to try to comfort her, but froze in horror.  
  
A pile of rubble from the rock slide shifted. Rocks fell away as a batter gauntlet with a bent blade forced its way out. Like a true juggernaut, Drake rose again.  
  
He had taken a terrific beating. His armor was heavily damaged, with deep dents covering it. He moved with a limp, and his left hand hung uselessly at his side. But somehow, he was alive.  
  
He began to walk towards them, slowly, inevitable. His eyes were black fire behind his helmet, and his anger seemed to radiate out from him. To Rosa he appeared like nothing less then the Devil itself.  
  
Clenching her fist, Rosa activated the ring once again. Whipping out her sword, she charged, screaming. She feinted a thrust at his lightly armored face, then sidestepped and slashed at his neck. Predicting the move, Drake turned and blocked with his own blade, then riposted viciously. Countering her enhanced speed with pure skill, Drake matched her move for move.  
  
The fight dragged on for a minute, then two. Finally, Rosa came to a stop, the red aura flickering and dying. Her eyes rolling back into her head, Rosa fell to the ground, unconscious. Drake drew his arm back for the deathblow.  
  
A voice from behind stopped him.  
  
"This is for every person you've murdered."  
  
Drake heard the creak of a drawn bow. Lowering his arm, he dismissed Ellis' words.  
  
"No one shaft could carry them all."  
  
Lightning-quick, he spun. Ellis released the arrow as he did. It went through his eye slit and into his skull, destroying the evil mind that had brought suffering to so many people. Drake stood for a moment, then toppled back.  
  
Ellis looked at the corpse for a long time. She thought about removing the helmet to see the face of the man that had killed so many of her loved ones, but she shook her head.  
  
"I know what you look like."  
  
She dropped her bow and went to Rosa.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
As the sun fell, Ellis packed the last of the dirt onto Gilliam's grave. They had buried him well away from the rubble that served as the tomb of Chell and his zombies. Alberto had rejoined them, neither woman dared to ask how he had survived. Carefully, she placed the small, flat stone they had found atop it. Her heart almost broke again as she read the inscription Rosa had carved into it. Standing, she turned to the others.  
  
"Let's go. Ramza will want to know what happened here."  
  
As the sun sank beneath the horizon, its last rays illuminated the epitaph Xavier's spirit had inspired.  
  
  
  
No greater love hath any man then this, then that he should lay down his life for his friends.  
  
The End  
  
(Its been a long road making this, but I enjoyed every minute of it. Thanks to everyone who took the time to read it and especially those who took the time to review, I might have given up if it weren't for the feedback. My first story is now complete) 


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